


The Miserable(s) Month 2020 [English]

by 2W_NikiAngel



Series: Les Misérables Challenge [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst, Both of them are adorable, Boys Kissing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Grantaire is adorable, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, Kink Discovery, Kissing, Les Misérables Challenge, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Post-Break Up, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Smut, Sports, The Miserable(s) Month, The Miserable(s) Month 2020, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a lot of kissing actually, and other Ámis loves them, enjolras is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 118,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2W_NikiAngel/pseuds/2W_NikiAngel
Summary: A collection of non-consecutive oneshots written as part of the october challenge bythepiecesofcaitcalled "The Miserable (s) Month". All fanfictions are written for pair Enjolras/Grantaire at different stages of the relationship.M or E ranting: chapters 11, 13, 14, 23, 27, 28, 29, 30Trigger warning: chapter 4 - mention of death and suicidal thoughts; chapter 5 - blood; chapter 7 - blood and (almost) death of one of the characters; chapter 13 - mention of sexual abuse and rape; chapter 17 - short talk about selfharm; chapter 20 - talking about anxiety, depression, selfharm and suicidal thoughts; chapter 27 - tortue, mention of sexual abuse and rape, death; chapter 29 - war and mention od death.[Český originální text/Czech original]
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), one-sided - Enjolras/Feuilly (ch24), past - Grantaire/Montparnasse (ch1)
Series: Les Misérables Challenge [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947769
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	1. Last

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go! For the first time in almost ten years that I love Les Misérables and a good two years when I started uploaded my fanfictions publicly, I embark on the first fandom challenge. I'm a little afraid if I can write all 31 fanfictions. I'm also afraid if they will be interesting in something. Last but not least, I am afraid if I follow the theme of the day correctly. But you know what? It's the kind of fear that doesn't stop you, but rather moves you forward. As if you were looking forward to it. That's exactly how I feel! And I hope it will help me go with this challenge.
> 
> So - from today - I'll see you every day. I hope you enjoy the first story. I will be happy for any response!
> 
> PS: You all get it, right? "Last" as "last player on the field" ... It makes sense, doesn't it? ... I should stop watching all the sports anime I guess.

“Dammit!” Courfeyrac threw the ball into the ground with force, the ball bouncing to the other side of the court. He kicked angrily at the ground, hunched over, and walked behind the white line. “I'm sorry,” he said with fake-crying, and placed his forehead on Enjolras's shoulder, which began patting him on the back. “So close! I almost won it…”

“I saw it, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said as he grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away. “You tired him.”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac shouted happily, smiling broadly at Enjolras.

“In that case, thank you very much.” With that, they both went to opposite directions. Courfeyrac sat down on a bench where Combeferre was already serving him cold water, and Bahorel was giving him a baguette full of cheese and ham. He accepted both gratefully and sat down between Joly and Feuilly. But they all stared at the court before them.

Enjolras came to the middle of the playground. Someone from the left passed a white ball to him. He threw it up several times.  _ Heavy _ , he thinked as he felt how hard the ball was in his hands.  _ Freshly inflated, newly bought  _ \- he told himself in his head.

“What is it,  _ Barbie _ , do you see the ball for the first time in your life?” Enjolras stopped looking at the ball and looked ahead. Opposite him, behind the white dividing line, stood Montparnasse. His hands were folded at his hips and he had an unpleasant grin on his face. Even though it was so hot outside, he looked like he had just left his house. His hair was still fluffy, his cheeks only slightly pink, and there was no sign of sweat on his black T-shirt. He was breathing calmly, standing upright, and still walking quite fast. As if they hadn't played dodgeball here for two hours. Everyone was tired, sitting on benches, snacking, fanning with Feuilly's fans, which he had made just for this occasion.

“I was just wondering how much it would hurt when I hit you with him. Forgive me for trying to delay that painful moment. I will not make the same mistake again.” Without further ado, without any warning, Enjolras threw the ball sharply in front of him, hoping that it would hit Montparnasse right in the stomach. But he jumped to the side at the last moment. The ball bounced off the stone wall of the former school and returned to the field. Montparnasse bent down for it.

“I'm glad you know how much it hurts. Because that'll be the last thing you feel when you get out of here.” With that, he returned the attack. Enjolras crouched before Montparnasse even before his throw. He knew how he played. They had seen each other so many times that he could predict what he would do. He knew that Montparnasse always aimed too high and obliquely. He knew it was enough to take a few steps forward and he wouldn’t hit him. When the ball bounced on the other side, Montparnasse groaned unhappily.

“Maybe next time,” Enjolras said as he picked up the ball and attacked Montparnasse again. This time, the brunette waited for his throw and dodged before Enjolras reached for it. The ball flew to the bench of Patron-Minnet. The boys laughed and threw the ball back to their captain on the field.

“Pretty bad,” the brunette laughed and tried again. Enjolras crouched down again and turned before the ball would roll into the middle of the field. “Don't play a smartass,” he said irritably.

“Then play a little better,” Enjolras advised him as he threw the ball again, and Montparnasse avoided it, again. The boys sitting on the benches watched their attacks almost without breaths. Although they were still cheering so far, no one was trying to say anything now, and they were supporting their captain in spirit.

It had been two years since the boys of the  _ Les Ámis  _ had decided that they could strengthen their relationship by any activity other than their meetings at the Café Musain. It was Combeferre who decided that it wouldn’t be about any revolutionary topic; and Bahorel, who suggested that it would be best to be physically exhausted. Jehan immediately forbade going to the gym or doing any martial arts; Feuilly expressed dissatisfaction with everything that would make him skate. They couldn't think of anything for a long time, they almost forgot about it, when Courfeyrac came to Musain once and was excited about the fact that a small tournament of town amateur players would play in his neighborhood. No one wanted to go to the tournament, but he promised everyone that he would buy them chilled orange beer, which was sold for only one month and was so famous that even Combeferre, who didn’t like to drink, had a few glasses every year. During the tournament, a crucial thing happened - Enjolras, who had no overview of the sport and wasn’t interested in it, couldn’t take his eyes off the game. All his friends had already left, but he remained until the very end, when they announced the winner. When everyone was slowly leaving the field and a garbage service arrived, Enjolras entered the still-lit field, picked up the ball, and tossed it several times.  _ “So, we probably have a winner, don't we? _ ” Enjolras turned sharply and looked at Courfeyrac, who was leaning against one of the pillars and laughing broadly.

Without planning, the boys first started meeting on a small playground, two blocks from Café Musain, where they had fun, drank, and played occasionally. After two months, the irregular visits became regular, first once a week, then twice, three times, then they started a joint conversation on the Internet, where they called their playing -  _ training _ . After four months, Courfeyrac signed them for a small tournament, where they won second place. As Enjolras took over the cup - everyone unanimously elected him to be a captain because he was the only one who went to every training, and even trained by himself - his eyes lit up. _ “I shouldn't be so happy to have a cup in my hand, should I?”  _ He asked helplessly, trying to control his smile.

And so the boys got into a small city league. Within a moment, they met all the important teams, trained and went for a beer with selected players, they had a good relationship with most of them and respected the rest. There was only one team that they couldn't stand by any chance.  _ Patron-Minette _ . A strange name for a strange team made up of strange people who got into play in a strange way. Most of them started playing as part of community service for small thefts, which they did around Paris, often very unsuccessfully. Montparnasse joined them six months ago. A mysterious, beautiful man no one really knew anything about. He was said to have killed a man, but because of his beautiful appearance he was only given a condition. The one who had the courage to ask him about it for the next few days was strangely silent and preferred to avoid him. He never said anything about it, and only one dark, charming look was enough, and everyone preferred to remain silent.

In addition, he was a great player and captain. Almost no one could beat him. That's why when they finally found out that they were going to face them in a final of the city cup tournament - which actually had no value at all, but in their amateur league, they felt as if they were playing for Olympic gold - they all got excited. Except for Grantaire. _“Look, I'm not really good at it. Can't I just cheer for you?”_ Grantaire wasn't the best player, but he belonged to the team just like the others. He was able to serve well and his hits were strong, although they often missed the target. He dodged the ball like a bullet, so it happened that he remained in the field until the very end before handing his place to Enjolras. It wasn't long before they learned what was behind Grantaire's hesitation. A month before the start of the amateur league, they met with _Patron-Minette_ in the school gym, which rented them a place for training. When they reached the large hall, they surprised them with the words that they had nothing to do there. They overpaid the school principal to rent the hall to them, and he complied. He didn't care about any sport at all. When it was almost time for a fight between Brujon and Bahorel, Montparnasse got up from the bench, walked over to Grantaire, and looked at him. _“I see you've found another gang you're using now.”_ Grantaire got white, and Combeferre started calming all of them down, because they look like they would fight with Montparnasse any minute. “ _You've always had a weakness for blondes_ ,” he laughed at Enjolras, who didn't understand the situation. Grantaire confided in a pub - after three beers, a glass of wine and a shot of rum - that he had dated Montparnasse before. Or so Grantaire thinked. But it didn't take long for him to find that he was just a toy for the younger one. He did not explain why and for what reasons they eventually broke up, but it was clear from the look that even after three years, he was still quite shocked and in pain. At that moment, Enjolras tried not to notice how he gripped his palms tightly and wanted to run after Montparnasse for an explanation. Instead, he trained vehemently for two days, until Combeferre feared he would faint with exhaustion. No one asked why Enjolras decided to double their training and make them harder, they knew he had a reason.

And that reason stood right in front of him. The reason which laughed so strangely. The reason which looked so attractive, but something about him was insanely dangerous. The reason whose eyes were like the sea - not blue and calm, but dark, scary and turbulent.

Enjolras noticed the ball as it flew straight onto his stomach. He squeezed it quickly so it wouldn't fall. He whimpered. It was a stronger blow than Montparnasse normally gave. “Have you woken up?” The younger man asked with a laugh. “What’s the matter? Nervous?”

“Never,” Enjolras said truthfully, throwing the ball with the same force against his opponent.

Montparnasse caught it against his chest and laughed. “So what do you think is so important? How do you lose and go home to your mother with your tail between your legs?” His throw was a little lower, hoping that he would hit Enjolras in his face as he tried to kneel.

But the blond peeked through his tactics. He jumped to the side and let the ball roll to the end of the court. He came for him and said, “Don't you think it's appropriate to confide your private activities in public?” The ball slipped slightly from his hand during the throw. He knew he wouldn't hit him.

Montparnasse almost didn't dodge this time. He knew it wouldn't be necessary. When the ball hit the wall and bounced off it, he quickly picked it up and said with a smile, “I have a little different plan. And it's about my  _ tail _ , too.” He threw it with so much force that he almost fell forward.

“Disgusting,” Enjolras remarked as he grabbed the ball and threw it straight at his opponent.

“What? Is that talk about an  _ innocent Apollo  _ true?” Montparnasse knew he had to speed up, or he would get tired before Enjolras. Both were balanced as captains, but Enjolras's team was a little better. They lasted longer than he, who had to defend himself against three opponents - Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Jehan. Grantaire, strangely surprised at how experienced he was, was the first to drop out. He saw his hands trembling as soon as they saw each other on the field. He took advantage of how nervous he was and advised the boys to focus on him first. He knew he didn't have much strength anymore, and Enjolras hadn't shown him the best yet. He had to attack him in other ways.

“Don't call me  _ that _ ,” Enjolras growled, throwing the shot a little more to the right than usual.

“Bingo,” Montparnasse whispered to himself as he realized what was happening. Surely he knew what the look Enjolras had given him at the first moment they met meant. He knew that Grantaire had told him about their relationship, and if he was smart enough, he didn't tell them the details. Even so, it was possible to deduce from everything which of them was the bad one. Even Montparnasse knew it was him. And if all of Grantaire's stories were true, he knew that even so, as inaccessible and dismissive as Enjolras looked, he cared about his friends very deeply. Especially for their happiness. And from the brightness of Grantaire’s smiles and dreamy looks somewhere in the distance every time he spoke about him, it didn't take him long to realize how devoted the brunette was to Enjolras. And from the murderous looks the blond had been throwing at him for three hours straight, he knew that Grantaire was probably  _ not just a friend  _ to him either. “Forgive me, I just remembered stories that Grantaire told me before.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said as he grabbed the ball and reached out to throw—

“Especially in bed.” —And his hand went down so hard he barely reached across his line. “That was very bad, I thought they called you  _ invincible _ ,” he laughed, lifting the ball from the halved line.

Enjolras's eyes widened and his hands tapped. He hated it when someone slandered his friends. But now it was a little more personal. He didn't like Montparnasse as a person, let alone as a Grantaire's ex-boyfriend. How could anyone like -  _ talented, kind, funny, brave  _ \- Grantaire, love such a rotten rat as the brunette before him?

_ Don't think about it!, _ his inner voice shouted at the blonde as he narrowly dodged the ball. He could almost feel himself running around his hips. “Tight!” Shouted Montparnasse's team. “You almost got him!” The tallest of them added.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse laughed, glancing at Enjolras, who was picking up the ball from the ground. “Which you'll never say about Grantaire.” Enjolras missed again. His throws seemed to suddenly lack strength and direction. “It would piss me off, too, if I couldn't drain the last of my energy tonight after winning. Better you're not even planning to win. Thank you.” Montparnasse threw harder than he intended. His hand slipped, but the ball still bounced hard enough to hit Enjolras.

At the last moment, Enjolras grabbed it and squeezed it to his chest. He growled. He hated it when something didn't work out. Especially, if his performance depended on the fate of the game, in which his friends put their whole soul in. _ I must not disappoint them _ , he told himself when he threw, but even this time he missed and the ball flew somewhere where no one stood. “Damn,” he whispered to himself.

“Enjolras! You can do it!” Feuilly supported him as he stood on the bench. “Don't give up!” Shouted Courfeyrac, standing beside him. “Tear up his ass!” Bahorel laughed, his mouth full of cheese.

“You can never do that. Especially when Grantaire is already  _ so wide _ thanks to me. Your snail doesn't stand a chance.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras growled uncomfortably as he grabbed the ball and tried to throw as hard as he could. Without success. 

“What? You don’t like it?” The brunette laughed and threw the ball again.

The throw was aimed low enough and Enjolras barely caught it. “Be quiet,” he said a little louder. This time, the boys on the benches have heard that they were talking about. Until then, they hadn’t paid attention to their conversation. “It's none of your business,” he said, tossing. Another miss. “Damn,” he said again, taking a deep breath. His friends watched him in anguish. Enjolras was also just human and had a bad day, playing worse or without concentration. But he has never been so bad. They didn't know what was going on. “It’s not possible…”

“But it's possible if you choose a  _ fucking whore _ for a friend.” His throw was aimed directly at his stomach.

He hit him. But Enjolras caught it. He didn't even have the ball for a second— “Don't talk about him like that!” - and threw it back with all his force.

This time he didn’t miss and hit Montparnasse in the shin. He caught the ball quickly and whimpered painfully. “So this will turn you mad? The truth about how much your drunkard loves when someone pushes into his—”

“—Shut up!” Enjolras shouted until everyone jumped. Montparnasse blinked in surprise, and instead of throwing, he hugged the ball and waited. “Shut up!” He repeated. “Grantaire is not like that! He has  _ never  _ been like this! And when you say that about him, nothing changes that he will  _ never  _ be like that. Because despite his ironic speeches, sarcastic remarks, embarrassing jokes and vulgar songs; he is still the talented man who can paint a copy of Mona Lisa from his head; the heartbreaker who can do absolutely everything for his friends, from buying their favorite game to a fight on the street; the idiot who doesn't see how great he is and tries to convince himself that he doesn't care at all. That's why he will never resist even such a speech, because you are not worth it. But it’s worth it for me. Because I'm here to defend him with my friends. That's what friends do.” Throughout his speech, Grantaire slowly opened his mouth until it fell almost to his chest. Everyone watched him in surprise, Jehan blushed, and Bahorel pulled out his cell phone and began recording, perhaps in the hope that he might become an Internet hit with Enjolras's confession. “And if you insult him in front of me, I don't promise how I’ll act.”

“Wow,” Montparnasse laughed. “You really want to fuck him, don't you?” With that, he threw the ball at Enjolras.

The throw was waiting and he caught the ball without any problems. “At least he'd finally know what it's like to have someone good in bed.” As if the sudden confession gave him strength, and he could finally throw straight and hard again.

Montparnasse caught the ball just before it flew past his head.”"Quite bold words coming from virgin.” He tossed, but he knew on the fly that he would miss.

He threw too high again. Enjolras caught the ball and indicated that he would throw it to the left. “I'm absolutely sure of that—” As Montparnasse swerved to the right, he quickly changed his motion and threw the ball quickly toward him. “—Because he would finally know what it is like to be loved.”

Montparnasse didn’t have time to react. The ball hit him directly in the chest. There was a strong blow and then three more as the ball rolled to the end of the court. Immediately, all the  _ Les Ámis  _ boys jumped to their feet, running to Enjolras with screams and wide smiles. But it was Grantaire who was first by Enjolras’s side. He jumped around his neck and kissed him wordlessly. Enjolras widened his eyes, petrified, and didn't know what to do. But when Grantaire began stroking his cheek with one hand and hair in the other, he gave in to his sweet kiss, closed his eyes, and the smell of sweat and cigarettes he smoked before the tournament filled his entire nose. Their kiss lasted only a moment. Enjolras had to pull away from the elder. “I can't breathe,” he whispered apologetically, and Grantaire leaned against his forehead.

“We’ll train it,” he whispered, laughing and pulling away from him so everyone could congratulate Enjolras.


	2. Scorch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought for a long time about how to handle this theme, and in the end I got the idea as the penultimate one in the whole challenge (do you know which what theme I had the biggest problem with? Chapter 6! You’ll find out more about it when I publish the oneshot). After writing it, I re-read it almost ten times and I’m still little nervous how I handles the theme. What do you think?

Grantaire rubbed his hand, which was tied with a white bandage that had ugly red stains in some places. His palm itched and his fingers burned. He felt as if he had poured his hand with hot water and had an allergic reaction at the same time. If his palm hadn't been protected by a cotton swab, he'd have scratched all the laboriously embroidered stitches long ago.

The door opened. Grantaire got up quickly and walked over to the man, who was smeared with oil and smelled of gasoline. He ran his dirty hand through his graying hair and looked apologetically at Grantaire. “Sir, this is the only thing we saved.”

“I just bought it,” Grantaire muttered sadly, singhing unhappily. The guitar in his hand was charred in several places, had a big scorch mark on the neck, the grasshopper peg was almost completely gone, a few strings had broken and two tuning pegs were missing from the head. Grantaire owned it for exactly four hours. And he destroyed it already.

“I don't know if you'll want to see it,” the gentleman said seriously, glancing through the glass window at Grantaire's car, which was standing on a ramp, and it was clear that the two large stands with laughing young men standing beside them, were not meant to magically turn his car into new one. They were supposed to scrap it. Grantaire wasn’t sentimental - he didn't collect receipts from dates that didn't even work out; he didn't write diaries and in fact he never saved any photos he took with his mobile phone, he deleted them after some time. But his car? His beloved twenty-year-old car with a hole in the exhaust and a stamp on his side, which he bought for a few euros from an old man in a small city and which he worked so hard to make mobile? The car in which he first kissed a boy, where he made his coming-out in front of his sister, when he first went on holiday to Italy and returned with a boyfriend with whom he made love every night at back seats? Yes, in this case he was sentimental. When he saw the boys ready to press the red buttons on the pillars to scrap the car in the smallest possible piece, he had to look away.

“I need to go.” He turned and waved goodbye to everyone. When he heard a loud beep and a creak, he sped up.

He groaned as he opened the door. Even though it was autumn, the sun was shining almost as hard as in summer. It burned his eyes and itched his skin. If his beloved car hadn't just gone through a scrap metal death, he'd rather return to the cold and smell of a garage than be unnecessarily exposed to annoying rays. But he had to go out. Because of the red car waiting in front of the gate. He looked at the cell phone display, where an unread message from Courfeyrac shone - _ He should be there by now _ . He took a deep breath and headed for the parked car.

“Hey, I hope you don't wait for a long time,” he said nonchalantly as he opened the passenger door and peered inside. Enjolras turned to him, his face as stony as ever. He blinked and tilted his head back to the road, started the engine and waited. “Well, all right,” he whispered as he got in and threw his guitar on the back seats. As soon as the seat belt clicked, Enjolras drove out of the parking lot. “Thanks for coming for me, you really didn't have to.” An ambulance took him to the nearest hospital, where most of the students from Joly's school went to medical practice. When a red-haired girl came into the office with thick glasses on her nose and a bee tattoo on her elbow, she just asked him -  _ Aren't you Joly's friend? Franteire? Or something like that? _ \- he knew in that moment that everything would turn wrong. Within minutes, his closest group of friends knew about his car accident. His cell phone vibrated uncomfortably in his pocket under the rush of messages. Grantaire read them all, but didn’t answer any of them. He was only interested in the last message from Courfeyrac -  _ Enjolras will come for you and take you home _ . He'd been nervous about it for two hours. He had never been really alone with Enjolras. And if, always for just a few minutes. The way to his apartment took almost an hour by car.

Grantaire frowned. How did he actually get here in the first place? Where did he drive to? In fact, he didn't remember anymore. All he knew was alcohol and a few annoying friends from the pub played a big part. “I'm surprised you don't have work on the weekend. I always think you’re surrounded by books and such things,” Grantaire laughed, but got quiet again quickly. Enjolras didn't even look at him, his face didn't change, he breathed calmly. “I'm not a burden for you, right? I wouldn't forgive myself…” Enjolras took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Um, today’s pretty hot, right?” No reaction. Grantaire watched Enjolras for a moment, then sighed deeply. He decided he'd rather look out the window. Even so, he saw Enjolras' reflection. He was nervous about every blink, movement of his head or fingers. He never looked at the brunette, asked what had happened, or turned on the radio. They rode for an hour in the silence that landed on Grantaire like a poisoned cloud that filled his lungs. He felt like he was suffocating.

When they finally arrived in front of Grantaire's apartment, he quickly unbuckled his seat belt, said only, “Thanks for the ride. Let me know how much you need for the gas, okay?” And he wanted to get out. But the door didn’t open. He blinked. He tried again, but didn't let the pressure on the door go. Locked. “Um,” the brunette cleared his throat, scratching his hair. “Don't you know what's wrong with that door? I can’t open them.” He turned to Enjolras and quickly huddled back in his seat. Enjolras finally looked at him. His forehead was wrinkled, his eyebrows dangerously close together, his eyes clouded with dark blue, his lips almost like a narrow line through which nothing could pass. His face and ears were reddish. Grantaire knew that look. He always looked like this before they started arguing. “Enj—”

“Can you explain to me what you thought?”

“…What?”

“Did it sound like a lot of fun when you got into a car drunk?”

“Fun? What is it about— “

“Do you think it was fun when Joly called me and said you were in the hospital because you have a car accident when you drove drunk?”

“En—”

“So you think so?!”

“Of course not!” Grantaire shouted, grabbing his elbows with his hands. He felt as if he were hugging himself. He needed it. He wanted to hide somewhere in a corner. He felt as if he had been preached by his own father. “Of course not,” he repeated. “I didn't mean to scare anyone.”

“But you scared everyone, Grantaire. Don't you know what could have happened?”

“Of course I know, Enjolras, don't make me an idiot.”

“You make yourself look like an idiot.”

“Seriously? Do you want to insult me now?”

“Do you think that's what I'm after?”

“And what else? You will always find something. This is good for you.  _ Grantaire screwed up again _ , another sentence for your speech about me. I'm glad I was able to do you another service.”

“Do you really think that's what I'm after?”

“And what else? You only came anyway because no one else had time. You don't care what happens to me. If I got burned in that car, you wouldn't care as much as I'm here with you now. You'd only send me flowers to the grave so they wouldn't say that you didn’t care about your  _ friend _ or something, but otherwise you'd be okay. So stop being stupid and unlock that door.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, exhaled, straightened a little. He studied Grantaire for a moment, then looked in front of him again. His hands were still on the steering wheel, which this time he held strangely convulsive. His fingers were starting to ache. “No.”

“Why? Are you afraid I'll get drunk again? I don't have a car to get into anymore, so I'll have to wait before I earn a new one.”

Enjolras pressed the wheel a little harder. “No.”

“Stop acting like my dad and unlock the door.”

“No.”

“Why?"

“Until you realize—”

“You're terrible—”

“—What could have—”

“—Open the fucking door—”

“—You must finally take care of yourself—”

“—Shit, leave me alone—”

“—What do you think will happen when—”

“—Open them!—”

“—listen to me!”

"—Open it!”

“ _ No _ !” Grantaire didn't know what he felt first. Enjolras’ shouting? His words? The force he felt on his arm as he pulled him close? His scent that echoed around him? What was it? Burnt wood, orange and vanilla. He didn't know this cologne yet, it was probably new. Or did he notice how wide his pupils were, making his eyes almost black? Or how red his face was? They were probably colored by the anger he had suffocated all along. “No,” he growled. He spoke softly, but still quite rudely. As if he had been roaring for a long time, his voice jumped and - were there red spots under his eyes? Grantaire frowned. It looked like a rash. But the blond didn't seem to notice. It probably didn't itch. In that case, it looked like—

Grantaire felt he couldn’t breathe again. Did Enjolras really have dried tears under his eyes? From what? Who hurt him? What happened? Why did he still hold his arm so hard and feel he had to listen to him? He wanted to say something, but he could only lick his lips with his tongue. They were dry. He wanted a drink. “Apo—”

“Listen to me—” Enjolras's fingers dug even deeper into Grantaire's arm. “—Never do this again, but I tell you emphatically,  _ never  _ do it again. Drink as much as you want, but never try to get behind the wheel again. I don't care who forces you to do it. I don't care if it's a bet. I don't care if you say you can handle it.  _ Never  _ do that again.”

“Ap—”

“ _ Never _ .” He squeezed him again.

Grantaire hissed unhappily. “…Okay.”

“God,” Enjolras whispered, finally releasing him. Grantaire massaged his arm with his fingers several times. It hurted. He knew he would have an ugly green-yellow stain there tomorrow. He suffered from bruises. “Sometimes I think you're a real idiot.” Enjolras leaned back in his seat, sighed, ran his hand through his disobedient, blond hair, and shook his head. “You're a real idiot, Grantaire.” Grantaire was still silent. He knew something had happened. Enjolras never spoke like this, he never behaved like that. “Didn't you realize what could have happened? I don't just mean that you could have hit another car right now. That you could have killed someone. That you could have killed yourself. God,  _ you could have killed yourself _ , Grantaire.” Enjolras grabbed the root of his nose, hoping to calm the drums that had just begun to play in his head.  “ When Joly called me in the morning, scared, I thought he was joking first. That it's one of your jokes again. I know how cruel you can be to him. How many times have I been to the hospital unnecessarily, just because you make fun of him and he almost collapsed from fear? How many times have I told you not to do it, because it will be Joly's death one day? But this… I knew this. I knew it wasn't a joke this time. I needed to calm him down before he could tell me what happened. It took me half an hour. Then I talked to Elodie, the girl who treated your bruises. Joly couldn't even talk to her as his voice cracked all the time. She told me where to find you and I went to the hospital.”

“To the hospital? But you weren’t — oh my god.” Grantaire covered his mouth with his hand and looked at Enjolras in disbelief. “ _ …Cops _ .”

Enjolras just nodded. “They told me everything. It was hard to convince them that it was just an accident when you inhaled almost two and a half per mille of alcohol. If I didn't have a friend at the traffic police station, you might even be investigated for a general health hazard. Which just reminded me now that I would have to buy Didier his favorite whiskey. It costs almost 50 euros. Thank you very much.” Grantaire had no idea if he should apologize, so he kept quiet. “When I made it up with them and paid the fine, you were no longer there. Elodie told me you were in a car repair shop not far away from the hospital. Before I got there, Joly contacted the others and wrote to them about what had happened. When he knew you were okay, he was able to talk about it. Everyone offered to pick you up. But I was the closest, so I convinced them to pick you up. I had been in the parking lot for a long time, waiting for you to change your mind and go out.”

There was a moment of silence. Neither knew what to say. Enjolras knew it wouldn't be good to continue, but the silence was killing him even more. Grantaire felt he should apologize, but he still didn't know how. It often happened that he frightened his friends - when he appeared in the doorway of the Café Musain with another bruise under his eye, or when someone threw a stone with a threatening letter through his window. But he was never so close to death. He shivered. His whole body was drenched in cold sweat and goosebumps. Only now did he slowly begin to put it all together… “...Why?” Enjolras made a sound that he didn’t understand. “Why did you come for me?”

Enjolras laughed softly and moved his palms back to the steering wheel. “Isn't that clear, Grantaire?” Grantaire was silent. Enjolras took another deep breath and said in one breath, “I know you think I’m so little interested in you. But it’s not so. We may not be best friends, but you’re also not strangers to me. I know what you like, what you hate. I know you love the red shirt I gave you for Christmas, originally as a joke, but everyone tells you it suits you. And they are right. I know you love cheap red wine because the expensive one is too sharp for you. I know that you only paint at night, and when it rains you have the most inspiration, so you turn off your cell phone because you don't want anyone to disturb you. You hate coffee because it's bitter, and you say that you've had enough of the bitterness in your life. You’re allergic to cat fur, but you love cats. You would like to have one off the street one day, because it reminds you of yourself. Although I never understood why you saw yourself in a rotten, shabby cat when you were clear— _ umm _ ”

He didn’t finish. Grantaire kissed him. All the sounds around them get silent. Blood boiled in his ears, in his cheeks, in his chest, in his stomach. His legs shook and his hands began to sweat. All he could see was how Enjolras’s expression was changing. From frightened, to annoyed, to caring. He watched as his eyes suddenly lit up and finally had their typical celestial color.

He didn't know what to say, so he did what he felt was right. He kissed him. Oh God -  _ he kissed him. _

Enjolras's lips trembled. They were soft, wide, wet. As if he were lying down on the grass, which was still wearing drops of morning dew. It tasted fresh as well. He pulled away from him, leaned his forehead against him, and with his dark eyes stared at Enjolras who was trying to find answers to questions the brunette didn't even know. He just wanted to feel his warmth and kisses now. “Should I take it that you were worried about me?”

“Of course I was worried about you,” Enjolras said a little louder again, his forehead pressed even harder against his.

“Okay,” Grantaire said only as he closed his eyes and leaned over again to kiss him. They rubbed against each other, opened their mouths, tasted each other. Careful, as if they didn't want to get hurt. But the moment was soon over. Grantaire was consumed by feeling that Enjolras was worried about him and cared for him. Enjolrase again engulfed the feeling of relaxation when he knew the brunette was fine. In a moment, they deepened their kiss. They examined the other's mouth with their tongues, trying their own taste to replace the other. They pressed their noses together until they couldn't breathe. Their necks and chests burned, but they didn't want to stop. Grantaire was afraid he would never be able to do it again, so he wanted to enjoy every second.

But when Grantaire placed his hand on Enjolras's face and his fingers began to touch his ear, Enjolras hissed blissfully and grabbed his hand in his own. “Ouch,” Grantaire whimpered, pulling away quickly.

Enjolras blinked incomprehensibly. “Oh my God, I'm sorry,” the blond said as he released his grip. He looked at Grantaire’s palm. It was bandaged with a white bandage with red bloodstains. “I'm sorry,” he repeated. He lifted his palm to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“Just a little,” Grantaire admitted. In fact, he was more sorry for the idea that he wouldn't be able to paint for more than a month.

“Um,” the blond growled as he kissed each of his fingers, then stroked the back of his hand several times.

They just stared at each other for a moment, exhaling their kiss and trying to figure out what to do next. “I'll have to go,” the blond said at last, leaning towards the steering wheel to push the lever that unlocked all the doors.

As soon as there was a familiar click, Grantaire reached for his guitar and walked out the door as soon as possible. He needed fresh air. He knew that if he stayed in his car a little longer, he would do something stupid - maybe he would ask him if he didn't want to go to his aparment, or he would try to kiss him again. He couldn't do any of this. “So, tomorrow at Musain?” He wanted reassurance that everything was fine.

Enjolras looked at him, nodded, and sighed wearily. “Tomorrow, Grantaire. Take care about yourself please.”

“I will,” he promised him as he closed the door and hurried to the main entrance. He didn't want Enjolras to see how wide he began to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally fulfilled the theme with a guitar, that had a burnt neck, and for peace of mind, I caused Grantaire a slight burn of his hand. What would you come up with for this theme?


	3. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boyfriend have birthday today, so I thought it would be nice if I gave him this oneshot as a small gift. He is a very quiet man, so I thought that his nature would be useful to me as a basis for Enjolras behavior and his view of his relationship with Grantaire. But - the two didn't listen to me and instead of romance I have a slightly sad story about what it's like to break up with someone. Wonderful. So, of course, I didn’t even tell him about this oneshot (omit the fact that he would never even read it, but it would be so symbolic, right? :D) ... I just hope that the “universe” doesn't try to suggest anything to me...

“These late returns to home will kill me one day,” Enjolras complained as he sat on a seat in the subway and leaned his head against the cold window.

“It's not pleasant, I agree,” Combeferre admitted as he removed his heavy backpack from his shoulders, threw it on the floor, and sat down next to Enjolras. He grunted in displeasure and began massaging his left shoulder with his palm. “This will hurt for a long time.”

“Don't be so surprised when you carry a weapon of mass destruction in that bag.”

Combeferre pursed his lips indignantly. “There are only important things I need for my study! Books, seminar papers, notes, a notebook, hospital documents, hospital work schedules, notes for  _ Les Ámis _ meetings, suggestions for new improvements I intend to—”

“That's enough,” Enjolras stopped him with a smile. “I get it. You have more to do than me. I won't complain anymore.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Combeferre said, straightening to get a better look at Enjolras's face. He smiled weakly at him and nodded to indicate that he understood. Combeferre was in his third year in medicine school, and although he knew it would be difficult to study, he never anticipated how much. Two years ago, he drank his tenth coffee and watched it dawn again, and he had another sleepless night, ending with a failed neurology test and a surprising toxicology test, the result of which he knew once he had read all the questions. He still felt quite behind. He enjoyed studying, his classmates were great, his teachers helped him - but his grades weren’t the best, once he even had to enroll in the subject twice. And that didn't happen to anyone in their, extremely smart, family. When his father found out, he told him nothing, but Combeferre knew he was ashamed of him.

He was already one step away to end his study, when Enjolras appeared in his life and together with his friends transported him to a beautiful, new world, which filled him with energy he thought he would never be able to feel again. Thanks to that, everything seemed more bearable, and even though he still had a lot of work to do, with friends around him, it was much easier.

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, who took a cell phone from his pocket and read something on it. Combeferre envied him at times. Enjolras studied renowned law at the prestigious French University of Patheón-Sorbonne, but he looked as if it didn't matter at all. He passed the study extremely well, he fulfilled everything on time, his grades were excellent, he practiced with leading lawyers and this year he joined Dr. Lamarq - a lawyer fighting for human rights, even president himself was afraid of him. Still, their group of friends seemed to be more important to him. He always had meetings perfectly prepared, he talked only from his mind, he didn't prepare anything, he had the answer to everything, he was full of ideas. Combeferre sometimes envied the lightness of his life.

Still, he seemed more tired. His eyes were puffy, he had big purple sacks under them, and his lashes were strangely stuck together. His hair was washed, but not as radiant and airy. The clothes were clean but different. His style seemed to change from day to day. His perfume, once stronge, dominant and woody; suddenly smelled of strawberries and something fresh, but it was so light he could barely feel it. He was not wearing a necklace, a bracelet, not even a ring. And yet, since—

“I'll see you tomorrow.” Combeferre was distracted by Enjolras's voice, which suddenly appeared above him. He blinked, and when he saw an empty space in front of him, he turned quickly to the door where his friend was standing, ready to get off at his stop.

“Oh, yes, that's why,” he whispered to himself, moving his glasses closer to the root of his nose. “Enjolras!” His friend looked at him and raised an eyebrow as a sign that he was listening. “Don't you want to come to me today?”

Enjolras was already breathing into the question -  _ Your girlfriend has just moved in with you. Wouldn’t she mind if I was there? _ \- when he realized what Combeferre meant. He recognized his caring gaze. He smiled and just shook his head. “I'm fine, Combeferre.”

“Oh.” Combeferre could have sworn he felt his cheeks flush. How could he think his best friend wouldn't see it? They've known each other for so long— “Enjoy the evening,” he wished him hopefully.

“You too.” Enjolras came out the door, didn't wait for the others to get on, and came up the subway stairs. It was almost ten o'clock in the evening, it was dark everywhere, no lamps shined through the street. Only a few cars passed by, and at the end of the street, a neon sign shone to a non-stop fast food store. He crossed the street quickly, unlocked the door, and quickly entered the apartment complex at the very top of which he owned his first apartment in life.

“I'm home,” he said as he entered the hall and turned on the light. He kicked his shoes off, walked down the hall to the kitchen, and turned on a light throughout the apartment. Nothing was cooking on the hob, the television was not playing, no one was sleeping on the couch. He looked at his watch. Five minutes past ten. Grantaire never did anything on Saturday, resting and relaxing, practicing yoga, dancing in front of the screen or trying a new recipe. But he never left the apartment. Every time Enjolras returned, someone greeted him. Grantaire or Amor, their red-haired cat. He was inhaling that he would try to say Grantaire's name when he realized that— “Oh, right, there’s no reason for him to be there.”

He went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and frowned. He never cooked much. He couldn't do it, he didn't like it. He was able to cut his finger while slicing vegetables. 

_ ("Have you ever been in the kitchen before, Apollo?" Grantaire asked in disbelief as he saw how he couldn't find a single bowl to pour the chips Grantaire had brought to their Marvel movie night together. “You’re just waiting for the right one who will know where everything is, right?” He laughed as he found the largest bowl hidden under the sink on the first try _ .) 

He pulled a pan from the cupboard to heat the butter, tossed the ham over it, and laid the eggs, hoping to eat as soon as possible. 

( _ "You're useless! Get away from it! You'll burn it again!” Grantaire pushed him away from the bubbling pot on which the lid was bouncing foolishly. “You won't approach the stove ever again, okay!?” He ordered carefully and wiped a few drops of sweat from his forehead. _ ) 

After a few minutes, Enjolras poured on a plate what he was trying to call his dinner. He tasted it. He could feel almost nothing. He looked around, but he had no pepper or salt even. 

( _ Grantaire chuckled. He tried to make sure he had to swallow it. After all, Enjolras made breakfast for him in bed! For their anniversary! He has to try! “Have you ever made breakfast for your parents? Yeah? How much pepper do you put into it?” He asked him cautiously when he was finally able to swallow. “I'm surprised it hasn't killed them yet!” He ate it all anyway.)  _

He took leeks and dill from the basket next to the coffee machine, cut them both into small pieces and sprinkled them with eggs so that they were almost all green. He put a few pieces in his mouth again, rolled them several times in his mouth, and even though the taste was not great, it was possible to swallow it this time. But the dill...

( _ Grantaire pointed a pencil at him in a weak voice, tired from the fever and runny nose, commanded, “Ugh! Put that away! It stinks.” When Enjolras was feeling bad, his mother made him a great dill sauce, and he hoped it would help Grantaire, too. “I hate dill.” Enjolras throw out the dill that night. _ ) 

“I'll have to go shopping tomorrow,” he told himself, hoping he wouldn't forget it in the morning. He turned on the coffee machine, chose one black coffee without milk and sugar, and boiled the water.

He leaned his back against the line and looked ahead. Mostly, when he got home, the television was on. 

_ (Grantaire fell wearily on the couch,  _ grunting that his Art History professor was a terrible asshole,  _ and began to talk about what a horrible day he had. Enjolras didn’t listen to him, paying attention to the online streaming of political discussion in parliament. Suddenly the face of a famous actor appeared on the screen instead of the prime minister, and laughter came from the television, Enjolras winced and turned unhappily, “I'm not going to stare at that. Did you hear me? I have the worst day. Come here and snuggle me. You know how much that always improves my mood.” Although Enjolras didn't want to admit it, he was glad he could accommodate him. Actually, the discussion itself bored him.) _

His eyes looked at the stool before the television. There were still a few DVDs on it that definitely didn't belong to him. Enjolras loved documentaries and political debates, Grantaire loved comedies and animated films. There was a white, soft rug under the table.

Although Enjolras was a clean maniac, especially in terms of documents and all the books that had a well-defined and have their order in shelves; he hated vacuuming. If anyone approached the carpet, they would run away. From the crumbs that remained there after the fight three weeks ago, all the ants in the area will surely soon start moving into his apartment. 

_ (Grantaire peered into the living room, where Enjolras was wiping the shelves. “What did you say? Vacuuming? Come on, Apollo. I'll clean your toilet with a fucking tooth brush, but don't expect me to ever take a vacuum cleaner in my hand. It’s so boring! And washing dishes? Get a dishwasher!” He walked over to Enjolras, hugged him from behind, and even though he was a few inches smaller, his mouth still managed to touch the sensitive spot on his neck, directly under his ear. “I need to paint and make love with those hands of mine. Do you want something so soft to be crumpled and dry soon? Would you like that?”)  _

“I wouldn’t,” he whispered softly and then signed. Why did he still hear his voice whenever he looked at anything in his apartment?

The coffee machine beeped. 

_ (“You’re drinking coffee again, Apollo?” Enjolras blissfully closed his eyes as he felt Grantaire hug him. He put his head on his shoulder and yawned. “You shouldn't spend the night like that. And still drink caffeine.” Grantaire looked at him wearily, “Do you promise?” Enjolras just nodded. Grantaire kissed him gently on the mouth, then on the nose and forehead. He went back to the bedroom with that. Enjolras didn't keep his promise and went to sleep in the morning when Grantaire left for school. _ ) 

Enjolras drank and grunted contentedly. He loved coffee. It was his greatest sin. Although coffee was known for its ability to encourage someone, Enjolras didn’t drink it because of it. He just loved the taste. 

( _ “I can't drink it,” Grantaire admitted, rejecting Jehan's offer of drinking his black coffee several times. Everyone asked him why he hated coffee so much and he always had different excuses. But this time he didn't want to lie and when Jehan asked, he answered truthfully, “It reminds me of Enjolras' taste. I feel like I'm kissing him. And I really don't need to get boner like some fucking teeneger.” It was the first time everyone saw Enjolras blushing.)  _

“Damn,” he whispered, putting the coffee in the sink. He didn’t want it anymore.

As he moved, he smelled something strange. He lifted the hem of his T-shirt and sniffed. He whimpered. He hasn't washed his clothes in a month. His clothes didn’t stink of sweat, only because of his almost complete inability to sweat, but the scent he had bought two weeks ago in a small shop, hoping to cover all the odors he passed. “I should go take a bath,” he decided. He walked around the dining table and entered the bathroom. As soon as he took off his T-shirt and tossed it in the laundry basket, he saw that there was a wooden stick on the sink with a blue string tied with a piece of paper at the end. Grantaire made it at the time when they had brought Amor to home.

( _ "Look how beautiful he is!" Grantaire shouted as he pointed with a brush in front of him at the scraper on which the small, red-haired kitten slept. “I had to paint him.” He proudly puffed his chest and pointed to a canvas with a perfect copy of their sleeping cat. “It's not perfect, but I want to remember this moment.”)  _

They found Amour on a walk in the woods. He was in the box with his siblings. That day they brought the box to a shelter, where they took care of them. However, Amor whimpered steadily until they returned to him, so they adopted him after two months. He was afraid of people, but he loved them. He proved it to them every second of his life. He loved cuddles, meows when he wanted atttention, and loved to play. He never scratched or bit them, not even while playing.

Enjolras grunted again in displeasure. His head was starting to hurt. He decided to skip the shower for today. Just the same as yesterday. Or the day before yesterday. Or a week ago. He closed the door behind him and entered the bedroom. Several used shirts were laid on a chair at the desk, he put one of them on him, and still dressed, fell into the duvet. It was already cold outside, but the bedroom was pleasantly warm. He dug his nose into the duvet and inhaled hard. 

_ ("You're like a dog," Grantaire laughed as he finally pulled Enjolras away from him. He said something that made Grantaire blush and laugh out loud. “So pervert then! Okay!” Enjolras hugged him again and deeply exhaled his scent.) _

His scent. It was intoxicating. But now he smells nothing. He moved his head to the pillow. He didn't smell anything there either. He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. 

_ (“Don’t you want to paint the walls with some other color than white? It kinda scares me.” Grantaire didn't even look at Enjolras, his head tilted and examined the ceiling. “Do you know the stars for babies? When you shine a light or let enough sunlight flow into a room, they shine at night. That would be awesome, don’t ya think? Have piece of universe at bedroom.”) _

He remembered how they had glued them with Grantaire, how much fun they had, how much they laughed, how they lay down in bed after to see their work, and at that moment kissed and made love.

_ ("Oh, Enjolras," Grantaire moaned softly. There was something desperate in his voice. He needed him. Even closer. Was it even possible? “Enjolras,” he whispered once more as he held out his hands to him. “I’ll not break, you don’t need to be so gentle,” he whispered excitedly, pressing Enjolras against his naked, sweaty body. He licked his lobe and said with the rest of his strength, “I love you.”) _

Enjolras kicked off the duvet and stood up. He couldn't lie here anymore. Not when he had so many memories here. He walked back to the living room. He couldn't even sleep on the couch. It was comfortable, wide, soft, but perhaps more things had happened there than in their bedroom. He couldn't even turn on the television, because he immediately remembered how they always fighted what they were going to watch.

“This is going to kill me,” he whispered as he ran his fingers through his thick, blond hair. His head began to pound as if he were standing at the speakers at a rock concert. He looked around the apartment. There was an uncomfortable silence without Grantaire and Amor. Nothing could distract him. Music, television, bubbling food in a pot, water used for washing dishes. Nothing. There was silence. And emptiness. He had never minded it before, but when he found out how great it was to live with someone he loved, it was addictive.

He needed air. He opened the balcony door and leaned against the railing. His world was suddenly filled with the sound of a siren, the laughter of a drunken group under his windows, and the roaring wind that foretold a storm to come. Maybe as strong as the one he felt in his head.

He sat down on a chair next to the railing and pulled a cell phone from his trouser pocket. He unlocked it and took a deep breath. In the background he had a photo of a sleeping Grantaire with Amor in his arms. He took it secretly and had no idea if Grantaire knew about the photo at all. He loved it. But nothing could match what he felt for the two.

He clicked the message icon with his finger. The very first conversation was between him and Grantaire. He opened it. They wrote the latest messages three weeks ago.  _ (“Should I buy something for dinner?” - “No, I'm cooking. Just come home as soon as possible!” - “Sure, I'll be there in half an hour. I love you.” - “I love you too, Apollo.”)  _ Last conversation before their first fight as partners.

Before their breakup.

He swallowed dry. He still couldn't believe they broke up. They weren't best friends, and in fact they always asked themselves how they got together. But something in them told them it was supposed to be. They should never be friends, but partners all the time. And it was so great. Maybe too much. And that's why it ended.

But not for Enjolras. He still saw him, heard him, felt him,  _ loved him— _

“Now or never,” he said to himself as he sent a message to Grantaire without thinking,  _ “I miss you.” _

He turned off his cell phone and muttered. Did he really write something so real? It was hard for him to put feelings into words, so he prefered writing them down. It helped. But there were things, situations, and words he couldn't even write.

As he slowly began to accuse himself of not preferring the disgusting eggs, drinking bitter coffee, taking a shower, and falling asleep exhausted; his cell phone vibrated. For a long minute he wondered if he had read the message or not. When his heart finally won and his fingers unlocked his cell phone, he couldn't help but smile.

_ “I'll be with you in half an hour. And with Cupid. Make me tea.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their fight and the reason why they broke up wasn't important to the story, because it was about something else - how Enjolras was trying to deal with a broken heart, even though he still cared about Grantaire and couldn't forget about him. Even so, I wonder - what do you think was the little thing that made them to ended their relationship?


	4. Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did the process of writing this fanfiction look like? _“Sea ... sea ... sea ... um ... so okay, Les Ámis will go on a trip and stop by the sea, it will be a beautiful story about friendship! ... No, wait, it would be great, if there was something romantic ... So what if Enjolras realized there that he was in love with Grantaire? Yeah! This is it! And what's more romantik than the setting sun? ... Look, the other guys don't even have to be there, so - Enjolras and Grantaire alone on the beach at sunset, the water washes their feet, ... Okay, but what if Enjolras realized he loved him, but it was too late? ... Wait, what?!”_ \- Well, all of a sudden, the idea completly changed. I don't understand how it happened.

The whole train swung dangerously from side to side. Somewhere under his feet, old rails creaked. Then the whole train jerked a few times, and there were crunching sounds, as if he were coughing hard. The wagon entered a bend, drove into a tunnel, and after a few meters seemed to be miraculously healed. The train stopped shaking and was as quiet again as the new trains. “Mom, the man is so handsome.” Enjolras looked up from the ground he had been looking at for a good two and a half hours and looked ahead. Opposite him, three seats away, sat a little girl who couldn’t be more than five years old. She held a doll with a yellow dress in her hand and pointed at Enjolras. “He looks like a prince from the fairy tale you read to me yesterday.” Her mother looked in her direction, and as her eyes met the Enjolras, her cheeks flushed faintly, she blinked and quickly rebuked her daughter for not pointing fingers at people and whispering to her something Enjolras hadn’t heard. He leaned his head against the window, which began to cool his hot forehead. His eyes scanned the rapidly changing landscape, which looked a little more beautiful due to the orange hint of the setting sun.

When he finally got up to get off at the next stop, the girl watched him again. This time quietly. Enjolras smiled at her, and before he got out he saw she smiled at him back.

When he reached the small station and heard the train roar and pick up speed in the background, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Again. He sighed, took his cell phone from his pocket and looked at the new message.  _ Feuilly _ . Who else. He was always most worried about him. It was as if he represented his mother, who hadn’t cared about him since he had moved from the small town to Paris. He caught a glimpse of all the messages his friends had sent him. Most of them were the same -  _ Are you okay? Do you want to meet? What if we went out to eat out tonight? Will you answer? Will you call? Don't you want to go to the cinema? _ \- Everyone was worried about him. But always only today. As if it had become a duty that everyone had to take care of. Enjolras turned off the cell phone and tucked it back in his pocket. He didn't want to be disturbed. He needed to do what was needed.

From the small station he continued across the dirt road to the town, which together added only 400 inhabitants. Most of them were older people who took care of their grandchildren, gardens or animals in their free time. Mostly people had rabbits and hens here, who sometimes walked around the square as if they owned it here. Nobody commented on it, the police didn't work here and people actually lived here quite freely and peacefully. It was almost like paradise on earth.

Until he reached the square. He walked around the fountain and turned into the narrowest alley on the left. Only as he approached the third house in a row did his heart pound. He tried not to notice the green fence, which was apparently freshly painted, and the gold gate, which someone must have freshly polished; but he couldn't help himself. As soon as he saw the family's name on the mailbox, he stopped. His hands shook and he turned toward the house. Large, two-storey house, darkly painted, with wooden details. Yellow curtains could be seen behind the windows. There were several flowers on the plot, most of them red or white. They all smelled very strong and sat on his clothes. Their scent was just provoking his nerves and turning his stomach upside down. His hands moved forward on their own, hoping to find a piece of brick somewhere that he could throw at the window. This would thrill the owners, who would come to the front, all red with rage or white with horror. And he would throw a burning newspaper at them, put them out so he could break into their house and set everything on fire. Let burn everything they cared about.  _ The things they loved _ . On all that was more important to them than their own son. He wanted to do that so badly—

—But he didn't. Enjolras swallowed all his anger, gritted his teeth, and stepped forward. He noticed that a couple from the opposite house was looking at him behind the curtain. They did it every year. It was the same ritual as his. And so he let them be.

He reached the end of the street and turned right. His forehead was dewy and his heart was pounding. But when he felt a salty breeze tickling his nose and playing with his hair, his heart skipped a beat. He was close. He walked two more streets, to the edge of a small park, from which he could already hear the faint murmur of the waves. After a while, soft sand appeared under his feet, into which he sank with his weight. Without thinking, he took off his shoes and left them lying on the edge of the beach. Small seeds of sand fluttered his toes and warmed him pleasantly on his feet. There was a small wooden cross on the beach, almost rotten under the onslaught of wind, rain, sun, and salt waves and bird droppings. When he reached it and drew his hand to it, he saw his palms shaking. He caught one of the ends convulsively with his fingers and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, but his lungs refused to hold on more than necessary. They suffocated under the onslaught of his own heart.

Enjolras exhaled and looked at the sea ahead. The surface was deep orange, the waves cute yellow, and the foam almost gray. The setting sun looked like a burning ball, as hot and red. Enjolras pulled his pants to his knees and moved closer to the sea. He smiled as the first wave cleared his legs. Even this time the sea wasn’t cold. He took a few more steps forward until he felt the water tickle under his knees and almost wetting his pants.

He looked vaguely at the sea and said, “I'm here.” He looked up a little to see the sun and the clouds slowly falling a little lower in anticipation of the light rain coming soon. “I'm here, Grantaire.” His friend's name almost stuck in his throat. It had been a year since he had last said it. But it had been three years since he had said the name to his owner - in front of the Café Musain, where he stopped him for private talk. But before he could say anything, their other friends joined them. Grantaire asked him what he needed, but Enjolras didn’t want to speak in front of them. He needed them to be alone. He shook his head, just said -  _ See you tomorrow, Grantaire _ \- and nervously squeezed the box in his jacket on the way to his apartment.  _ Tomorrow _ , he said to himself all evening.

But tomorrow never came for the two of them again.

“Everybody sent their hellos. Especially Joly and Bossuet. They still haven't forgotten your play of dominoes— ” It took four months to convince Joly that no one would return to his room to finish the game, and he cleaned it up. He cried as he put all the pieces in the velvet bag. He looked at each of them as if they hid all the memories of his black-haired friend. He hid the bag deep in the closet and never took it out again. But he didn't have the heart to throw it out. “—Joly is now a sophomore in economics. In the end, he's doing better than we hoped. He himself is surprised by how much he enjoys it. Can you imagine him? Mr. Hypochondria as an accountant? Or better yet - a consultant at the bank? I'm sure he'll make everyone get lifetime health insurance— ”Joly smiled and talked about the new focus as his best choice, but everyone could see how sad his eyes were. The spark hadn’t returned to them since the funeral.

“—Bossuet started working. You hear me right. He  _ started _ . So  _ again _ . He has changed jobs three times this year. His bad luck accompanies him in absolutely everything— ” Bossuet couldn’t concentrate on any work, and unlike in previous years, when he laughed at every failure, he frowned and became more aggressive. He started liking alcohol too. At the beginning, it was always just a few beers in the pub that didn't make anyone nervous. Over time, however, he began to visit the pub regularly, and the more he spent time in it, the more often he returned home drunk. A month ago, Musichetta found a bottle of liquor hidden behind the washing machine. He and Joly tried to talk to Bossuet about it, but he fighted with them. He then lived in a dormitory for two weeks before returning to their apartment with the words -  _ I need help _ . They both hugged him tightly and whispered to him -  _ We can do it. Together _ .

“—But Joly and Musichetta get along with it. They are fine. They are already planning a baby. I said that last year, but this time it could be serious— ” The boys wanted the baby, but Musichetta finally reached the age she wanted it too. But she always avoided the topic, she didn't want to hurt anyone. She knew that only one could fertilize her. And it always seemed unfair to her. But now, after what was happening to Bossuet, she decided she wanted Joly to be the biological father. They secretly made love together whenever Bossuet was at work or out with his friends. They lied to him that only all three were sleeping together. They didn't want him to feel pushed away in their relationship.

“—Combeferre has finished school, and job offers are pouring in. He himself doesn’t yet know what he will want to do, so he gives himself time to choose. But we all know he'll end up in neurology eventually, right?” Combeferre enrolled in a drug coaching course three years ago. He started with marijuana addicts, went on to alcoholics until he got to patients addicted to hard drugs. It was hard for him to hear sad and painful stories every day about people falling to their very bottom. If he was as weak as his bald friend, he would certainly start drinking too. Instead, he decided to focus his dissertation on drug addiction. It wasn't the best work anyone had ever written, but it determined the direction he wanted to go. He turned down a prestigious position in neurology the day the offer came to him. His parents fighted with him because of it, and over time they stopped talking to him completely. It bothered him, and he may have delayed starting work until he was able to be a good doctor for patients.

“—Courfeyrac fell in love with traveling. In just this month, he sent me three postcards from three different locations. I'd tell you a little bit about it, but I didn't really know much. As soon as he appeared in Paris, he disappeared again. He was talking about some South African country he needed to visit. You know how he loves the undiscovered. He should be back in two weeks—” Enjolras felt his hand itch. He was shaking. This time not only by the situation itself, but by knowing how much he was worried. The last time he saw Courfeyrac, he laughed, drank energy drinks, and kept shouting lines from movies he hadn't even heard of. His trip to Africa was unplanned, spontaneous, like everything he had done before. When they knocked on his door in the morning, the warden opened the door to them, saying that Courfeyrac had moved out. He didn't leave them a message. It wasn't until two weeks later that they received a letter saying that he needed to find himself and that he was doing well. The letter included a photograph of the indigenous tribe to which they had accepted him as their own. He promised them several times that he would return, but they always waited with the  _ Welcome home _ posters and baked cakes unnecessarily. 

“—Jehan has finally published his first collection of poems. We are all proud of him. He has improved a lot. I don't think you will guess that’s his poems though. He changed his style, but he remained as great as ever— ” When Jehan invited them to the first reading of his new collection of poems, they already knew in the doorway that something was wrong. The bar was tuned in black and red, there were people sitting in the area who were rather silent and had melancholy looks, it smelled of disinfectant and mold. The bartender led them to a door that led to the basement. When they reached the floor below, Jehan greeted them in clothes that stopped everyone. He was wearing a black robe and under it a red shirt and trousers, the shoes of an animal's skin, which he had so vehemently protected until then. Reluctantly, they sat on chairs and waited for the hall to fill up. Within the hour, the room was full of strange people who kept their eyes fixed on Jehan. They spoke of him as  _ a gifted writer _ and  _ savior of their weary, boring life _ . When Jehan began to recite, everyone knew what had changed. His poetry, formerly full of metaphors, beauty, religion and love, was replaced by death, blood, self-sacrifice, and depression. Enjolras was the only one who stayed to the very end. When Jehan asked him with a smile what he thought of it, Enjolras must have lied to him. He couldn't resist his innocent smile, as if he hadn't said anything about  _ eating a person’s brain in hope to gain their memories _ a while ago. Jehan enjoyed a new audience that loved him, and his collection became a bestseller within a few days. It didn't change how much Jehan's fascination began to frighten them.

“—You won't believe me, but Bahorel got back to law school. And no, he didn't succeed because he would beat someone, threaten, or sleep with the rector. He passed the exams with excellent scores and entered the first year with the best evaluation. Everyone praises him. It sometimes scares me how strong your brain can be and change your whole life—” He missed out on how narrow-minded and infant their friend had become. He sat over the books, didn't shower for a few days and didn't shave with the words _ I need to learn!,  _ and bought liter mugs into which he made three strong, black coffees without milk and sugar a day, sometimes supplemented with a powder for concentration. He was respected at school, but his classmates avoided him. He seemed boring and neglected. A year and a quarter ago, he was last seen at a meeting of  _ Les Ámis _ . He never returned to them. If Marius hadn't gone to the same school, they wouldn't have known what was happening to him.

“—And Feuilly is… still Feuilly. In the end, the CEO really left him his place, and now I'm friends with someone from the big company. I'm not saying we had an argument about it, but I wasn't excited about it either. But I apologized to him. If you knew how much he had changed, you might drip some tears with enthusiasm. It happened to me, but I will only admit it to you. Do you promise not to tell anyone?—” Feuilly was taken aback when Enjolras shouted at him that he didn't respect their work and group when he could take over the big business he built on making people slaves. Feuilly said nothing then, just paused and left. They didn't see each other for a long time, he didn't answer his messages, he didn't answer the phone, no one knew anything about him. Enjolras decided to take a drastic step - he couldn’t lose another friend who was so close to his heart - and he visited the company. He was greeted at the reception by a smiling girl, accompanied by a loud security guard, and as he walked through the work blocks all he heard was laughter and cheerful music. Feuilly was surprised to see him, but let him in. They talked. Feuilly changed the company from the very beginning - it was still one big carmaker, but working conditions and salaries changed. Feuilly had bags under his eyes, he wasn't smiling, his hair was tangled and he wore glasses on his nose, which he only wore when he was really tired. _I wanted to show you when everything was done, you completely surprised me,_ the elder complained. Enjolras knew then that if he continued like this, he would destroy himself. So he offered to help him. He suspended his university studies and became his personal assistant. Feuilly finally returned to his usual, smiling, kind self, which spread father's aura around him. And Enjolras clung to it like a fly on glue.

“—And me?” He smiled. “Everything is the same. I'm the most boring of them.” He pulled a small, velvety, black box from his trouser pocket and smiled. “Do you want to look? Again?” The wind picked up a little, stroking his cheeks, which immediately turned pink. Enjolras smiled. “I don't understand what you're still enjoying about it.” With that, he opened the box and revealed two silver rings. “They're still as beautiful as when I bought them three years ago. Three years. Wow, has it been so long?” He looked ahead, the sun a little lower, and it looked as if the sea was trying to swallow it. The sea was suddenly a little saltier, colder, and the waves sharper. Enjolras dry swallowed. “It's been a long time…” He turned and walked back to the beach. He knelt in front of the cross on which Grantaire's name was engraved on it. He could still make out his handwriting. He bought him the knife he used to carve this. His fingers touched the arch over the letter  _ R  _ and his throat became dry. “Forgive me,” he whispered so softly he could barely hear himself. “Forgive me,” he repeated, bowing his head. He could no longer look at his name. It hurt him so much. “Forgive me for not being able to say anything. Forgive me for not doing it before and that couldn't tell you how I felt about you. Forgive me for insulting you so many times. Forgive me for declining your every invitation to the apartment for a movie marathon. Forgive me for never listening to you enough. Forgive me for all the bad words I have ever said. Forgive me for falling in love with me. Forgive me.” He laid his head on his knees and wept aloud.

The breeze ruffled his hair, perhaps hoping to calm him. The waves crashed more calmly and rustled louder, as if singing to him. The sun had stopped burning so much, but it was stroking his back, like a mother trying to comfort her child in her arms.

Nothing helped. Enjolras still felt the sharp pain in his chest. “Forgive me...” The fateful day reappeared in his memories about the time when Grantaire went home to visit his family. Everyone knew he didn't like them, and they didn't hide the fact that they were disappointed in their son. But they still tried to talk him out of it and regularly invited him to their family home by the sea. Grantaire loved the place, but his family made the quiet and beautiful place absolutely unbearable. He was therefore irritated, and when he arrived at the _Les Ámis_ meeting before he left home, he made a good scene there. It was two days after Enjolras tried to confess his feelings to him and give him a ring as a “gift of love”, which he had custom-made for a goldsmith. Enjolras refused to argue, just kept quiet and left angrily after a while. He had red cheeks until the evening, when he sat at his desk reading documents about new government measures. When his phone rang and Grantaire's name appeared on the display - he ignored it. After thirty seconds, the ringing stopped. It didn’t ring again until the morning of the next day, when Combeferre called him. _“Enjolras, something has happened,_ ” he said simply, and the blond felt tremors and tears in his voice. After announcing Grantaire's death, Enjolras's phone fell out of his hand and he vomited, cried and yelled for two long hours.

_ Grantaire is dead. _

_ Grantaire is dead. _

_ Grantaire is dead _ .

His conscience repeated over and over. Enjolras knew it wasn't his fault. But even so, he never forgave himself for not taking his call. What would be different? Wouldn't he get drunk? Wouldn't he go to the beach to walk slowly in the middle of the sea and realize he couldn't swim? Wouldn't he drown?

He huddled even more on his knees. He hated it. That was the change he went through after his death. He finally found the suppressed hatred he thought he had always felt for high-ranking people and the legal system; but he tasted what it was like, to feel it for himself. It itched and burned, and he often found himself tearing the skin off his hands with his fingernails.

“A little longer,” he whispered as he felt the temperature begin to drop, the sky began to turn blue, and the town turned gray. “Just a little longer…” With that, he pulled an ampoule from his other pocket. There was some sand in it. Enjolras picked up a handful in his other hand and tried to keep as much sand inside as possible. The ampoule was almost full as he wiped his dirty hand on his pants. But it still wasn't enough for him to decide to go to Grantaire. He promised that when it was full, he would have to show it to Grantaire. He would merge with the sea just like his friend. They will finally have something in common.  _ Place of death _ . “Maybe next year,” he said, and the breeze leaned into him immediately. Enjolras laughed. He felt a warm touch in it, which had cooled down three years ago. “We'll be together soon.” He turned to the sea, which suddenly made no sound. It was quiet. He smiled. “I promise.” With that, he got up and walked away.

The train will leave in half an hour. He needed to go home. For the last time.


	5. Metallic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment i read the theme for this day, it was clear to me I will write something related to blood. And I immediately connected it with my favorite headcanon that Enjolras doesn’t fight until it is absolutely necessary and, most importantly, he can fight quite well, which always surprises most of his opponents. 
> 
> Trigger warning: Blood

If someone asked Enjolras how the blood actually tasted, he would answer that it was like pieces of metal dissolved in his mouth. Only thicker, as if dark chocolate were mixed into it. The blood was sweet, but it had a strange aftertaste that curved the face of anyone who tasted it. Even Enjolras spat in disgust as he felt another faint streak of blood run down his throat. The blood mixed with the saliva and together they formed a strange red spot on the ground. “Are you tired already?” Instead of answering, there was only a frightened gasp, a few incomprehensible words, and whistling soles as the boys began to run away from him as quickly as possible.

Enjolras waited for them to disappear around the corner, finally wiping the blood on his chin. He groaned in pain. It matched the same one he felt on his face and under his left eye, which he could see a little badly. Despite his militancy, Enjolras resorted to violence only in extreme need. So why didn't he suddenly have a problem beating three boys on the street who were taller than him, weighed more, and had more unrefined vocabulary?

Enjolras turned to the right. There was a young man sitting there, his back against the wall, one hand slung over his stomach, his eyelids barely open, and his head still falling to one side.  _ Oh, that's why _ , he told himself, kneeling beside the brunette and poking him a few times in the shoulder. “Hey, can you hear me?” He asked quietly. He saw him being beaten in the head. He was afraid they would somehow damage his brain.

The boy opened his eyes and smiled broadly. Enjolras immediately noticed that he wasn’t missing any of his teeth, his tongue not bitten, only a faint streak of blood flowing from a small wound in the corner of his mouth. “Apollo!” He shouted, excited, trying to raise his hands. He moved only slightly with them and immediately frowned. “I can't raise my hands,” he said in disbelief.

“Let me see.” Enjolras touched both of his hands and examined them. Neither looked broken. He tickled his elbows, arms and palms. Grantaire laughed out loud under all the touches. “Everything seems okay. Does anything hurt?” He looked into his eyes and waited for his answer.

“Head,” the brunette admitted. He wanted to touch his head with his palm, which was beating so loudly and strangely, but his hands were still folded in his lap. “And shoulder.” Enjolras glanced down at the torn piece of T-shirt that revealed his reddened shoulder. It was slowly turning blue and purple. It didn't look good at all. “And I feel like vomiting, actually,” he admitted as a strange growling sound came from his stomach. He burped aloud. A haze of sour taste of alcohol and stomach juices spread around them. “But it could also be the rum we guys drank today,” he laughed as a child.

“Come on, I'll help you,” Enjolras said as he approached Grantaire, slung his left hand over his shoulder and helped him to his feet. Grantaire whimpered and muttered something the blond didn't understand. They took a few steps forward, but in a moment the brunette hung on to Enjolras. His legs refused to listen. He didn't know if it was alcohol, a headache or a whole body pain. “Can't you walk?” He asked cautiously, noticing Grantaire stomping strangely. “Does your leg hurt? Or both of them?”

“Stop it,” Grantaire whimpered, resting his head on his shoulder. “My whole world is spinning.”

Enjolras sat Grantaire on the kerb and examined him again. “Look at me,” he said, and the brunette listened. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. “Your pupils are fine, it won't be a concussion.”

“You can't have a concussion if you don't have a brain,” Grantaire laughed at his own joke, pointing to his head. Enjolras decided not to comment. He looked at him once more. Maybe it would be better if he called an ambulance. He didn't know how long the boys had beaten him before he saw them. Under normal circumstances, he would call the police, try to solve it verbally with the boys from a distance, and he wouldn't do anything himself - he really didn't care to be the center of attention of drunk men - but when he recognized the curly black hair, smaller figure and green, worn sweatshirt , which he still wore that day at the meeting of the  _ Les Ámis _ ; something strange happened in him. Conscience told him he had to intervene. And he obeyed. Instinct was stronger than reason.

Enjolras pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Dead battery.  _ Great _ , he cursed in his head. “Don't you have a cell phone?” Grantaire shaked his head from side to side a few times before whining again. Enjolras sighed, knelt in front of him, and turned his back on him. “Put your hands around my neck.” Grantaire stared at Enjolras's blond hairs for a moment - how beautiful, shiny, and thick they were. Almost like molten gold. He swallowed, his throat dry as sand. He felt sick again. Without further ado, he leaned over Enjolras and grabbed him around the neck. Enjolras hooked his hands under his knees and stood up. With one experienced stroke, he pulled Grantaire closer to his body. “I'll take you to the hospital,” he said as he took a few steps forward to see if he could walk to the nearest hospital on his own. But Grantaire was a little lighter than he expected. He gritted his teeth. He noticed that the brunette was eating a little less, and alcohol had a stronger effect on him than before. It only happened when he lost a lot of weight.  _ What's going on in your life again, Grantaire? _

“No, not to the hospital,” Grantaire whispered in a desperate voice. “Not to the hospital…”

“You have to go to the hospital. What if you have internal bleeding? Broken ribs? I can't leave you here.”

“I can't go to the hospital.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why?”

“Because they won't help me there. Not here. Maybe in the fourth district.”

“That’s almost an hour away, Grantaire.”

“Just not to  _ this  _ hospital,” he whimpered, digging his nose into his throat. He was cold.

“Why?” Enjolras asked again, a little curious this time.

“Because Didier works there. And I don't like Didider.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Let's call him that,” the brunette laughed and closed his eyes. “He's the boys' boss.”

“The ones that almost beat you to death?”

“They just tickled me with their fists a little!” Grantaire protested, whimpering again. As soon as he raised his voice a little, his head ached for a moment, his throat ignited uncomfortably, and his stomach tightened. He had to take a deep breath to breathe away the nausea. He rested his head on his shoulder again, closed his eyes, and inhaled Enjolras's scent. “You smell beautiful,” he whispered.

“Um, thanks?”

“And you have very nice hair, too.”

“Hm.”

“What are you doing to make them so bright? Water them with gold? Or virgin tears? Ha, virgin tears. So all you have to do is cry yourself in a bowl and then pour it on your hair, right?”

“What you're saying doesn't make sense to Grantaire.”

“And you smell very nice, too.”

“You already said that.”

“I had to say it again.” Grantaire smiled. “And you're very kind, too.”

Enjolras didn't know how to react, so he kept quiet. He let Grantaire whisper some nonsense into his shoulder and tried to remember where Grantaire actually lived. Previously only a few blocks from Café Musain, but after the owner left the apartment building to his daughter, she repaired it and increased rents so much that Grantaire couldn’t longer afford it. He immediately said it to the boys, and they were all willing to take him home for a few months, until he found something of his own.  _ “Thank you guys for the offers, but I've already moved in with Éponine.” _

“Sure, how could I forget,” he said to himself as he returned to the crossroads and, instead of walking down the street with the houses where each had geraniums on the balcony, turned to the opposite side, to the park where there was a small playground and a couple of benches. Behind it were a few houses, all with peeling plaster, old wooden windows, and bars on the front door. There was almost no greenery in the area, except for the park. Several wheels were tossed in front of a single entrance, each in a different stage of trimming. There were no bells at the door.

“Just shove that door,” Grantaire told him. Enjolras shoved his toe into them, and the door creaked open. The hallway was cold, unpainted, dusty, with butts from cigarettes on the ground. “Third floor.” Enjolras immediately went upstairs. There was an elevator shaft in the house, but certainly no one would push him to enter the elevator without a door and a broken rope. He preferred to walk to the third floor. “The door at the end.” The first door was strewn with glitter, and behind it came loud laughter and music; the others were taped with yellow tape from the executors; the thirds were quite normal, only the unpleasant smell of urea emanating from them; behind the fourth the dog barked; Grantaire and Éponine lived behind the last one. To illustrate the avant-garde of the corridor, a spray-painted  _ Thenárdier’s Bitch  _ was written on their door with a spray. Enjolras read the sign several times and sighed. He only knew Éponine dimly, perhaps they had never even talked to each other alone, but he had heard all sorts of things about her. Especially in connection with her father, who was known for usury.

“Do you have the key?” Enjolras asked Grantaire as he tried to put him on the ground, but found Grantaire asleep. That's why the last few steps seemed so hard to him. He studied the area for a moment to see if he could see the bell, but when he didn't find it, he knocked.

In a moment, Éponine appeared in the doorway - wearing a tank top and sweatpants, her hair combed into a thick ponytail, her eyes tired and wet, maybe from hours of crying - but Enjolras was most interested in the long, sharp knife that suddenly appeared in front of his face. He took a quick step back. “What the — Enjolras?” Éponine blinked in confusion and straightened, pulled her hand with the knife back to her body, and finally looked at Grantaire. Horror flashed in her eyes, but the pain quickly replaced it. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, but instead sighed aloud. “Bring him in.” She swerved and let Enjolras come in. “Let the shoes on,” she told him as he stopped in the small space where their shoes and clothes were strewn. “Put him on the couch.” Next to the small hall was the only large room with a sofa bed, which Enjolras placed Grantaire carefully . Éponine supported his head with a pillow, removed his shoes, and gave them to Enjolras. “Put them next to the mirror.” So Enjolras went back to the hall, placed them next to the mirror, and looked at himself for the first time. His hair was sweaty and stuck to his forehead, his eye a little red, a large bruise beneath it that was still quite red. His other face was yellow-blue, as was a piece of skin above his lip. His lip was torn, as was his chin. Blood was still flowing from both wounds. “It doesn't look so bad.” Enjolras turned to Éponine, who was holding Grantaire's clothes in her hands. “Go sit on the chair, I'll help you.” Before he could protest, Éponine disappeared behind the door of another room that served as a bathroom.

So Enjolras returned to the living room. He sat down in the chair opposite the couch, where Grantaire was breathing contentedly. Éponine undressed him, covered him with a thick duvet, and placed a wet rag on his forehead. Grantaire smiled from his sleep. Enjolras began to examine the room with his eyes - it was miniature, the sofa bed and armchair were the only places to rest, the living room was connected to a small kitchen with only a sink, two sideboards, and two hotplates. There was no flower anywhere, no paintings, decorations or just the memory captured in the photograph. Everything seemed sad.

_ This is where Grantaire lives, huh _ , he thought, when Éponine finally returned. She sat on the edge of the sofa where the brunette was sleeping. He didn't even move. “Not even an atomic bomb would wake him up now.” With that, she dipped a cotton swab into the disinfectant and began wiping Enjolras' wounds. He hissed unhappily, closed his eyes, but didn't flinch. He let Éponine do what she had apparently done several times. “Where did you find him?”

“Before pub named Corinth.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“Three boys. They fought with him.”

“I told him maybe a hundred times not to go there anymore. Those guys must have waited for him there. They know very well that he cannot resist rum from Lafayette. I offered to buy him one. He’s unteachable.” She pulled on blue gloves, took a small needle in her hand, and a thin thread in the fingers of the other hand. Experienced, she threaded the thread through the eye of the needle and made a knot on it. “Did he say anything?”

“No,” Enjolras said truthfully, trying to remember what he had told him all the way. It was all about his appearance or smell. If they weren't in such a situation, he might have blushed faintly under all the words and praise. “Maybe just that he doesn't want to go to the hospital. Only in the fourth district.”

“Here in Saint-Denis works Didier as the primary of the hospital. He’s kind of like the boss of those guys. He's a very good friend with a local mobster, they do business together. If you took Grantaire there, they would take a second round. And perhaps they would have his kidney operated on, which they would sell on the black market.” Enjolras looked at her in surprise, and Éponine chuckled under his gaze. “I'm kidding. R is so soaked with alcohol that his organs would be useless. It’ll sting a little now,” she warned him as the tip of the needle touched his sensitive skin. Enjolras gritted his teeth, dug his fingers into his thighs, and took a deep breath through his nose. He felt tears burning in his eyes, but he certainly had no plans to let them down. Éponine looked at him occasionally as she sewed his wound, but instead of commenting on his tear-filled eyes, she continued, “Grantaire got involved with bad people. You probably know that his family was in big debt, don't you?” Enjolras grumbled as a sign of _yes_. “So after the death of his parents, everyone started to float around Grantaire and his little sisters like vultures. They didn’t care that the young boy and the little girl lost their parents at all, they just wanted their money back. And as soon as possible. Grantaire tried, but you know how people can be sometimes. It was bearable until his sister began to grow up. The little pup became a pretty pretty woman. And you know what men usually have to offer.” Éponine tugged hard and smiled. One wound was sewn, the other was left. She tossed the needle into the basket she had next to the couch, took off her gloves, disinfected her hands, and began from the beginning — new gloves, a needle, a thread, to stretch, to tie, to insert the tip into the skin, and to sew. Enjolras hissed again, but this time the pain was a little weaker. “When Grantaire found out, he was terrified. He never knew what could happen if he left her alone. So he looked for someone to lend him some money. Desperate people do desperate things. Didier and his gang lent him alot, saying that if he ever needed help, he would be there for him. Didier then sewed his wounds when someone beated him. In a few months, Grantaire paid off every debt. But Grantaire still had enough money left and suddenly said to himself that he didn't really know what to do with them, and he started drinking the first league. He continued to borrow, drank everything and made up debts again. But this time was different. You don’t want to mess up with this kind of person unless you want to be pierced to pieces and put into the trash one day.” She finished the last stitch and fixed the wound. She examined his lip and chin several more times and smiled. Everything looked fine, the wounds weren’t bleeding anymore. She cleaned them again with disinfectant. “It was clear when Didier's boys first beat him up and then took him to the clinic, where he works, and did some freaking experiment on him, that they were no longer safe again. He borrowed money from someone else one last time to pay for his sister's studies at a prestigious, girls' boarding school in Provence. He sent her there secretly so that no one could find her. They send each other letters, but he let them send it to the owner of the Corinth. He hoped they wouldn't figure it out, and at least have a place somewhere to feel safe.” She picked up a towel, dipped it in a bowl of hot water, and carefully washed Enjolras's entire face.

“Did they find out?”

“Not really, but something happened. He wasn’t very specific about it. Grantaire then tried and paid for everything, but when he gave Didier the last euro, what do you think he said?”

“ _ And where is the interest _ ?”

Eponine nodded. “Exactly.” She studied him for a moment and frowned a little. “Own experience?”

“Just a lot of television,” he said truthfully, remembering all the detective films Courfeyrac loved and making them all watch them when they had a movie marathon in his apartment.

“Grantaire tried, really, he had two jobs, he went to school so that he could paint for free with school supplies and then sell the paintings. Everything worked out for him. Until he had to leave his apartment near Musain, he somehow panicked and forgot about one installment. And Didier's boys simply found him. It's not the first time, and I'm afraid not the last time too.” Grantaire took a deep breath, let out a painful moan, and rolled on his side. They both looked at his back. When they saw how lightly he breathed, they knew he was still asleep. “He’s in some kind of deep shits,” she finally summed it up, setting a lightly colored blood towel on the table. “But he's strong, he can make it.”

“Why does he live here?” Enjolras asked as he looked around the apartment. “You don't even have enough space for yourself.”

“He didn't even ask me, he just suddenly came with a suitcase and said he had to sleep here. And it's three months already. I don't know what he thinks. Maybe it makes him feel better to see someone who has an even worse life.” Enjolras looked at Éponine, who was examining her friend, remembering the sign on the door. He never needed to be interested in anyone, he was glad he remembered everything he needed to know about his closest friends. But now he was strangely curious.  _ How did they get to know each other? What united them so much? Why did they both have such sad looks that they hid behind a loud and dominant nature? How come Éponine could sew so well? Why did the smell of cigarettes smell in the apartment, but not the paints? Where were all of Grantaire's things? _

“Why did you tell me all this?”

Eponine looked Enjolras in the face and shrugged. “I felt you might be interested.”

Enjolras decided not to comment anymore. He got up and fastened his jacket up to his neck. It was already very dark outside. He knew the temperature had dropped a few degrees. “I need to go,” he said, as if it wasn't clear enough.

“You can sleep here, I'll sit here with him all night, making sure he doesn’t feel sick or something. I'll give you my bed.”

“Thank you for the offer, but no.” Éponine also got up and walked to the door with him. He opened his mouth to say something, but in the end he just exhaled loudly. “I will call you.”

Enjolras frowned. “Come again?”

“Grantaire has your number on the fridge, he said it’s his emergency number. If anything happens, I'll call you. And you can come save him again.”

Enjolras just nodded, waved goodbye, and left the apartment as quickly as possible. Even though his wounds had long since been cleaned, he could smell their metallic odor all the way home.


	6. Riches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this theme was really hard for me. I kept avoiding it, and even when I started writing the first chapter of this challenge, I realized that I didn't really knew what I should write about. And the topic approached until I finally sat over the computer today and thought about how to simply write oneshot from my short not “Rich Enjolras as a sponsor.” And here is the result. Do you like it?

“Aren't we late?” Courfeyrac asked from the doorway as pull took off his yellow scarf and unbuttoned his long black coat. Behind him, Combeferre, holding champagne with blue ribbon in his hands, and Enjolras, who had pink faces from running from school to Grantaire's apartment to be in time for the start of the celebration; entered the hall.

“Just in time,” Feuilly said as he took the champagne from Combeferre and went with him to the kitchen.

“Grantaire hasn't told us how much he sold the painting for yet,” said Bahorel, who entered the hall to greet them.

“When he makes it such an affair, I believe it's worth at least a million.”

“Don't be silly if he sold it so high, he'd be in Bali a long time ago and don’t give a shit about the party,” he laughed, and Courfeyrac joined him. “But he sent a message to the guy who bought it today. Look, you should have seen how red he was. He has a freaking crush, I tell you. Sorry, Enjolras, but I don't think you're on top anymore. And you probably won't be anymore,” Bahorel said with a smirk. Enjolras didn’t answer, just rolled his eyes and shook his head. But no one in the room missed how faintly he smiled. After years of being friend with them, he was used to such talking. He even looked for them. It seemed better to him than when Joly had been afraid to talk to him at all two years ago, because he wasn't laughing at his jokes.

“Come on, it’s starting!” Jehan demanded, still in a boyish voice, calling to them from the dining table. They all entered the living room and stopped again. Courfeyrac opened his mouth, Combeferre just nodded, and Enjolras looked around. A month ago, Grantaire moved into a new apartment in a luxurious part of Paris, directly opposite the Eiffel Tower. The apartment was spacious, airy, and large. Every piece of furniture or wall was in black or gray color. Grantaire decorated it with his paintings, favorite yellow pillows and curtains, and a few flowers he received from Jehan as a moving gift. They all bloomed red and white, and so beautifully complemented the whole space. The living room was connected to the kitchen where Grantaire was, and he was searching for more glasses from the last drawer; and a large balcony, which was accessed by a glass door with a magnificent view of the whole of Paris.

“So beautiful,” Courfeyrac whispered admiringly, swallowing some saliva that had poured into his mouth after checking all the labels on the furniture. “I couldn't afford this, even if I decided to really dance at the pole in the end.”

“In the end?” Feuilly asked in surprise.

Courfeyrac just nodded. “My ex boyfriend suggested it to me when we broke up. He said, I quote —  _ I could do a lot of other things with those hips. _ ” He shook the sides several times as he proved his words and slapped one palm on his ass once.

“God, stop it or I'll vomit,” Bahorel moaned unhappily and sat down in one of the chairs at the long dining table.

“You’re just jealous,” Courfeyrac said as he wrapped his arms around his neck and pressed himself to his cheek. “Stop it, or I’ll think you have a crush on me.”

“Do you feel how hot it’s here?” Bahorel asked Feuilly and Jehan, who sat across from him, laughing softly.

“What are you hot about, Bahorel?” Courfeyrac asked innocently, blinking his eyes and pursing his lips. “Perhaps from the feeling from your crotch when your dick just now realized how hot I am?”

“More of  _ gay  _ you are. Go away, already,” Bahorel placed his palm on his forehead and pushed a little to finally pull him away.

“You don't know what you're missing,ů Courfeyrac complained, releasing him and sticking his tongue out at him.

“Can you fight later?” Grantaire asked, finally reaching all his friends. He held a tray of full glasses in his hands, slowly placed it on the table, and motioned for everyone to take one. They all stood with glasses in hand and looked at Grantaire. He smiled broadly at them. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I really didn't expect to ever succeed, but - my paintings will hang in the Museum of Modern Art for two months. And that's not all - the biggest, the most sophisticated of them, was immediately sold for - wait - _ three times the price _ I originally charged!”

“That's amazing, Grantaire!” Joly shouted.

“You finally made it,” Feuilly said, smiling broadly at him.

“I finally know a celebrity,” Bahorel laughed, wrapping his arms around him.

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Combeferre said, raising an eyebrows admiringly.

“So you're paying next time at the pub, okay?” Bossuet asked with a smile.

“I should have brought another flower for the occasion, you deserve it,” Jehan said.

Grantaire tried to soften his smile, which already hurt his cheeks. But he couldn't help himself. He had known for a week that his paintings had been selected for an exhibition of new artists, but he expected them to be exhibited in a sunken cafe or wine cellar, and no one would actually notice them. But when he learned this morning that they would be hanging in his favorite museum, and one of the paintings had already been sold; he jumped with enthusiasm. He couldn't believe it. He kept calling his professor, who was in contact with a mysterious man who became interested in his art a year and a half ago, and when he finally got an email address from him, he had to send a message to him. His fingers were shaking, his heart was pounding, and he still had to walk around the room to keep himself from fainting. All he was able to write was - _ Thank you _ . The answer came in a minute -  _ An artist like you deserves it. _

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac cursed, opening his mouth and rolling his eyes. Everyone looked at him in surprise. He didn't even touch the glass in front of him, instead he was counting something carefully on his fingers. “You sold the painting for 8,000 euros!” Everyone looked at Grantaire with wide eyes.

“That's exactly eight thousand five hundred and seven euros.” He pulled a white check from his pocket, which the courier had brought him in the morning. It was packed in a small box containing a few torn forget-me-nots - his favorite flowers. In them, the check was carefully wrapped in an envelope with gold trim. There was only a short message in the envelope - _ For my favorite artist. _

“Shit, I've never seen that number in my life,” Bahorel breathed as he snatched a check from Grantaire's hand and began looking at it from all sides. “Well, yeah, it's here, black on white!”

“I guess I'll start to learn art too,” Feuilly said as he drank a whole glass at one gulp.

“I keep saying that! Art is the only value we will have after our death!”Jehan shouted with a smile.

“Why does the word  _ death  _ appear somewhere in your speech every time you start speaking?” Feuilly asked curiously.

“Probably a creative deformation,” Jehan said as he sat down again.

“Grantaire—” Enjolras said suddenly in a serious voice, and Grantaire looked at him, his smile thinning a little, and he felt his heart begin to beat a little faster again. “Congratulations,” the blond said sincerely and smiled weakly, lifting the glass a little higher and drinking. Grantaire smiled broadly again, his eyes burning with a pair of flames, and Jehan whispered something beside him about  _ that some hearts can’t change even after years _ .

Everyone at the table then talked about what Grantaire was planning next. Combeferre arranged for him to finish his studies before deciding to work on his own. Courfeyrac tried to advise him to start traveling and enjoyed the money. But Joly objected to him, saying that he should rather save and think about the future. They shouted, laughed out loud, and discussed. The apartment was filled with warmth, laughter, and something unidentifiable that belonged only to them and made them happy.

After two hours, when the sun was setting and the whole room turned into a deep yellow shade, Grantaire suggested that they could watch a movie. Courfeyrac wanted to watch a musical, Bahorel an action movie, Feuilly a new James Bond movie, and Jehan, anything romantic where no animal dies. “I'm going to take a breath of fresh air for a while,” Enjolras said, letting his friends continue to argue about choosing a movie that only made him have a headache.

“I'll go too,” Combeferre said, escorting Enjolras to the balcony. They closed behind them so they wouldn't hear their friends arguing and leaned against the cold railing. Autumn was already there in full force - the leaves were falling from the trees, the weather was colder and rainier, it was necessary to button up the coat up to the neck. Enjolras wasn’t very in love with autumn, he thought the season felt weirdly sad. But Combeferre loved it, mainly for all the colors that this season made up, and while Enjolras saw only a fallen leaf, Combeferre began to examine its color, origin, and size.

They stood side by side in silence, as usual. It didn't seem strange to either of them. They had known each other for so long that they practically spoke without words, only in thoughts. But now Combeferre felt he had to say something. He looked at Enjolras, who couldn't take his eyes off the Eiffel Tower, and said, “So, you’re still doing it.”

Enjolras just blinked, smiled, and turned his head to Combeferre. “Is it wrong?” He asked cautiously.

“No,” Combeferre shook his head, returning his smile. “I think it's nice of you.” Enjolras just nodded and turned his gaze back to himself. “But won't your parents mind if they find out what you've been up to lately?”

“I have been taught how to handle finances since I was a child. They’re not afraid of me spending for stupid things. They don't check my account, nor do they want any contracts from me. They know that I invest as well as I save. In addition, when they received a gift from me yesterday afternoon, I even received a thank-you call. They thanked me for thinking about them and sending a piece of Paris to them in the village.”

“Grantaire's painting?” Enjolras just nodded. “8 000 eur…”

“It's not that much.”

“Not for you,” Combeferre laughed, getting a little closer to his friend. “But I should have wrapped you more around my finger, then maybe you'd spend it on me.” They both laughed softly. Combeferre turned his back on the railing, rested his elbows on it, and looked in through the glass door. In the end, Courfeyrac won and forced everyone in the room to watch _The_ _Greatest Showman_ for at least the tenth time. Although Bahorel hated musicals, as soon as the first notes of the opening song were heard, Courfeyrac and he began to tap their feets in the rhythm and sing. His gaze focused on Grantaire, who stood a little farther away, looking at everyone with a smile and a soft blush on his face. “Grantaire looks happy.” Combeferre was silent for a moment. Then he tilted his head slightly to look his friend in the face and asked him quietly, “What do you promise from this?”

Enjolras thought about it for a minute.

It all started a year and a half ago. If someone asked which one of the  _ Les Ámis was _ the richest, they would all say that Jehan. He came from a wealthy Parisian family that owned their own wine factory. He was an only child, so it was clear that one day he would take over the company. He lived in a spacious apartment that his parents still paid for. He was unpretentious, so he didn’t spend much, but if he could, even if he spent a thousand euros a day, he would still live for a few months without much difference. He didn’t hide his wealth, but he also didn’t reveal it unnecessarily. He usually signed up for the family business only when someone recognized his surname and associated it with the famous brand. That's why he used his nickname rather than his real name.

But the truth was, he was the second richest. Enjolras, who had two jobs in college in his sophomore year and volunteered at the animal shelter; could hardly admit that he had three credit cards hidden in his locker at home, on which he reached the limit of finances. His father came from an influential family, he got a for-profit company after his father, and his father was able to invest enough money to return double and other real estate. His mother didn’t come from poor conditions either, her wealth was hidden in securities, gold and lands. Although they were both rich, they never showed it, and when Enjolras was born, they decided to move to a small village with a few inhabitants. Enjolras grew up in wealth, but his parents taught him humility from an early age. They made him know the value of money. When he attended a ball of higher society in Provence every year, where his family attended because neither of his parents could say  _ no  _ and it seemed decent to them, to appear in society at least once in a while; he hated all the spoiled children who waved their parents' money before others faces and laughed at all those who didn't look good enough to them on their superficial ladder.

When Enjolras went to study in Paris, they supported him, and although he told them that he would like to work and didn’t need their money; they didn’t listen to him.  _ “You never know what might happen. Take them, at least in case of emergency.”  _ So, almost daily, he scaredly looked into the hidden safe for fear of losing something. He never knew what he could spend all that money on. He didn’t invest, he didn’t intend to start his own company, he was able to repay all living costs only with the money he earned. He sent several thousand euros a month anonymously to various charities, but otherwise his money lay at home completely unused, slowly losing their value.

By the time Grantaire had once entered the Café Musain, telling them he ended his studies. Everyone wondered why he ended up, and he told them with a laugh that he had done something stupid to get him kicked out. When Jehan supported him in trying again next year, Grantaire said nothing. And that seemed strange to Enjolras. Even from the worst experience, Grantaire could make fun. But this time he was strangely silent. A week later, Enjolras went to the pub named Corinth, where he was to arrange with the owner to rent one of his rooms for private lectures by their revolutionary group, when he saw Grantaire and Éponine at the bar. He wanted to greet them, but when he saw how sad Grantaire was and Éponine was serious, he hid around the corner so that they wouldn’t see him, but could still hear them. _“That sucks,”_ Grantaire complained, finishing his glass. _“You’re struggling and what's the point? I knew right away that once Martin will be the rector, it would be a mess. Asshole. Not everyone is rich! It was the only school I could afford. Lafayette was still so kind that he sometimes lent me his equipment when I didn't have anything. But now? I guess it's hard to tell him to pay my tuition. 500 euros per month. 500 euros! Where the fuck would I get that?!”_ With that, he laid his head on the bar and Éponine began stroking his back without a word and ordered another round of alcohol. Enjolras was researching on Grantaire’s College's website that evening - he was suddenly glad he had made notes in his diary of who of them was studying was and where, originally to expand their subconscious about their group and make contacts - what the brunette was talking about . And really - the school was taken over by a new rector. As soon as Enjolras saw his face, it was clear to him who he was looking at. He met the man every year at a ball in Provence. He didn't like him - he was known for changing wives every year, didn't pay any of his child support, and yet he wasted money where he could. He didn’t understand how anyone, so vulgar and cruel, could get into the management of an art school.

Enjolras had no idea why he did it, but he dialled Martin's number at that moment. He introduced himself as  _ Sebastien Leroy _ , a collector of works of art and a seeker of new talents. He talked to him about Grantaire, whose works were hanging at a student exhibition at Saint-Denis at the time.  _ “The boy isn't studying here anymore,”  _ Martin told him on the phone. When Enjolras told him that he wasn’t interested in supporting their school anymore, he immediately stopped him:  _ “But I can do something about it.” _

The next day, Grantaire came to Café Musain, shaking and blushing. Enthusiastically, he began to tell everyone about how the rector called him and demanded that he rejoin.  _ “It was a mistake to kick me out,”  _ he said. When Enjolras saw his bright smile, he had to control himself not to smile so much. It cost him six thousand euros a year. It was nothing.

_ “So much?!”  _ A month later, Bahorel shouted at the entire coffee shop, and Grantaire snatched new brushes from his hand, which he began to stroke and whisper about  _ not listening to this weird man _ .  _ “I'd have dinner at a luxury establishment, and a girl for the night.”  _ Enjolras discreetly asked Courfeyrac what the two were talking about, and he only got the answers —  _ Grantaire's school supplies _ . Enjolras understood that paying tuition solved only one problem. But what about the rest? Didn't the brunette say anything about not being able to afford as many quality aids as his classmates? He lost his way to the art streets of Montparnasse that day. He walked through the shops, asking the owners what they would recommend, and with all the information about the types of canvas, papers, brushes, and paints, his head was spinning. In the evening he returned home with several packages filled with things he had no idea if Grantaire would even need.  _ He could handle it somehow _ , he told himself, when he packed all his things in several packages in the evening and left with them in the morning in front of the apartment complex where Grantaire lived. They had no administrator, so he got into the complex without notice. He placed all the boxes in front of his door - he was absolutely sure Grantaire would not see him because he had an _ Anatomy lesson  _ he had never missed - and placed a note on them, signed as  _ Sebastien Leroy _ .

This, too, had the same effect on Grantaire as his return to school. He ran to Musain, paid a glass of wine for all the boys, and talked about what expensive goods waited for him. _ “Who is this guy, Sebastien Leroy, anyway?” _ As soon as Combeferre heard his name, he looked at Enjolras and laughed. When everyone looked at him strangely, he just shook his head and said,  _ “Probably your sponsor. Like patrons from early years.”  _ Grantaire blushed faintly at the remark. The thought of having someone to support him, seeing talent in him and being able to pay several thousand euros for his art, made his heart pound and made him happy. He smiled all evening and didn’t interrupt even once during the meeting.

_ “Sebastien Leroy? I thought he was dead for a good 80 years,”  _ Combeferre said as he and Enjolras locked the door to their secret room in Musain. Enjolras looked at him with a look that clearly indicated that he didn’t want to explain anything. _ “But it's true that your great-grandfather was an art lover. He would have liked Grantaire's paintings.”  _ Combeferre was the only one who knew the true identity of Grantaire's patron, but never considered revealing it. If it didn't hurt anyone, why would he spoil their fun?

And then everything happened so fast…

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I…”

Why did he decide to pay Grantaire for hours with a renowned oil painter? He had no idea.

Why did he decide to enter Grantaire in the competition and send him to Italy for an announcement? He had no idea.

Why did he decide to set up his own exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, where he could exhibit Grantaire’s paintings? He had no idea.

Why did he decide to buy Grantaire a new apartment so that he could finally live in the place he deserved? He had no idea.

Why did he decide to buy Grantaire's painting and spend more on it than he wanted? He had no idea.

Why did he decide to write with him today and not reveal who he is? He had no idea.

All he could think about was Grantaire's smile. The way his eyes blazed dark blue and began to glow as if he was hiding the sea in them. The way he always began to blush until his cheeks and ears were red. The way he bit his lip. The way he laughed out loud. The way he began to scratch his hair nervously. The way he put his right hand on his chest to calm his pounding heart.

He thought only of how addictive it became to make Grantaire happy.

“I don't know,” he repeated.

Combeferre studied him for a moment, then smiled only slightly. “Okay.” With that, he let go of the railing and went back to his friends.

Enjolras remained on the balcony until the sun had set completely.


	7. Crew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to dedicate this story to my best friend Elle, thanks to whom I got this idea. As soon as I saw this topic, I immediately thought that I would try to make her happy and write something in a pirate style. I hope she likes it at least as much as all of you. :)

It was uncomfortably hot in the cabin. Enjolras watched the candle burn slowly. All that was left was a piece of wick that could hardly be seen under the wax. Something cracked in front of the door, and there was a bang and the screams of several men. After a while, the sound came again. The whole cabin crackled dangerously under the gust of wind, as if trying to take it away. Enjolras tossed a silver-tipped fountain pen between his fingers. In front of him lay a piece of blank parchment. He tried to write something down on it, but he couldn't grasp his thoughts today. He didn't want to admit it, but he was nervous. In a few moments, someone's life was to be decided. And maybe even his own.

“Do you want something to drink?” He asked the man, who was curled up under a blanket on his sofa. There was a clang, indicating that he had shook his head and his jewelry rubbed loudly against each other. “You should be glad you're finally free. No one will force you to make love with men, women, do dirty work and starve ever again. Or do you miss it?” The clinking came again. “You'll be able to get out in a few moments, I promise I'll take the shackles off then. You deserve it for the work you've done.”

Someone knocked on the door. The man curled up even more in a ball, and Enjolras looked up from the blank paper on the table. “Come in.” The door opened. Courfeyrac entered the cabin. He stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, holding his injured hand to his chest, which Joly had treated in the morning. The wound hadn’t healed properly for a week now, it was more red and his fingers were starting to swell. “My captain,” he said, bowing his head in greeting. Enjolras greet him again. They were good friends, but there were clear rules on the ship that they followed. And one of the main ones was -  _ Never address the captain of the ship by his real name, whether first or last name. _ “The court is ready.”

“Thank you,” he said almost inaudibly, and Courfeyrac smiled at him. Enjolras recognized that his smile was fake - his eyes were sad, his look pensive, he could see his shoulders shaking. He was as confused by the situation as most of the crew. “You can go.” Courfeyrac just nodded and left, leaving the door open.

Enjolras closed his diary and touched by fingers the black leather it was wrapped in. Cold. Just the way he just felt. He hid the diary in the first drawer on his desk, which he locked. He hung the key on a piece of cloth and tied it around his neck. “When I call you, you'll go out. Don't try to do something stupid.” The candle on his desk burned, the fire sinking into the wax with a loud crack. Today, the captain's diary remains blank. And if he doesn't return to the cabin, he intends to take his secret to the sea with him.

He got up and left the cabin. He closed the door behind him, even though he knew it was useless. No one was allowed there without his permission. Even Bahorel, who was their ship's cook, knocked first and asked if he could enter.

He looked around. The men stood in a wheel formation on the deck. Some leaned against the edge of the boat, some hugged the ropes, others whispered something to their closest friend. Enjolras walked slowly in the middle of the deck. He felt a little harder with each step. Everyone's eyes settled on his shoulders, weighing him like rocks. He walked proudly, his back straight, his gaze slightly elevated; despite the raids and battles, his clothes still looked new, without a single crack. But if anyone touched his chest though, they would feel his heart pounding.

The blond looked ahead, where Feuilly was sitting on a barrel full of pure rum. They had known each other since birth. He was his father's servant, and when he died in a battle at sea somewhere in the West Indies, his ship and the rest of the crew fell into the hands of Enjolras. He was only fourteen at the time. In a moment, he grew up and became a proud man, who led his crew well and filled them with money, gold, food and, on time on the land, with enough women. There were many rules on the ship, but Enjolras valued the most important thing -  _ Respect the captain _ The law was originally unwritten, but after the betrayals perpetrated on his great-grandfather, they decided to put everyone to the test first, which ended in a promise to follow their captain to the point of death. Everyone shouted this promise tired and bleeding. But no one ever regretted it.

Until now.

“My captain,” Feuilly said aloud, almost shouting for the entire crew to hear through the waves. A storm was approaching. It was indicated by furious waves, a rising wind and a black cloud in the background. Enjolras hoped it wasn’t a sign of how the trial would turn out today. “Your crew accused you of treason today. How are you going to defend yourself against this accusation?” They were good friends, but they both respected the rights and responsibilities they set themselves on this ship. Therefore, Feuilly's voice didn’t shake, he wasn’t afraid to speak strictly to him and demand something that the pirate couldn’t afford to his captain.

That couldn’t be said about Combeferre. He stood beside Feuilly, nervously tapping his fingers on his elbow. He kept shifting his glasses on his nose, which slid down from how much he was sweating. His hair was therefore all stuck together on his forehead, and hair on his neck curled strangely. Enjolras had only seen him like this once - when he had been taken from his mothership, where he had been living as a servant for several years. Just the memory of a shaking boy in the corner of the cabin, with his hands glued to his ears and tears on his cheeks; moved something inside him. He liked him, he believed him, so why—

“I'd love to,” Enjolras said, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t think of anything now but his speech. To what he had to do to do justice. “My crew, I greet you. I know that the last few months have been harder for us and we haven't received so much money or food. I know you'd rather bathe in gold and jewelry and bite bacon every night. I'd rather be for that too—” Some laughed and others just nodded. “—But the time is harder now, and the sea is a little more dangerous. We have to be careful to get where we need to go.”

“And where is it?” Bossuet asked, stroking his still-large belly with his hand. “We'll starve before we get there!”

“Yes! Why don't we just sail to Karaba, we know it there!” Bahorel added.

“You mean Panama,” Jehan corrected him, playing with the knife.

“Just because you have one class at school doesn't mean you're smarter than me!” He countered offended.

“But I am.” Jehan stuck his tongue out at him.

Before the two could have a fight, Enjolras continued, “Gentlemen, please listen to me. I know it's difficult for you, you would like to taste a piece of land and the fruits that are hiding on it, but believe me, I do it only for  _ our  _ good. To get the best we can.”

“What's the best?” Combeferre asked, snorting. Enjolras stabbed him with one of his typical, cold glances. “Enjolras—” As soon as he said the captain's name, everyone fell silent. It was forbidden to name the captain by his own name before anyone. Only those closest to him could call him that, but only in private. Until then, not even any of his lovers could do what Combeferre allowed himself. “—We haven't eaten in almost a month, our supplies are running low. We are in the middle of nowhere. Why are we sailing so far from the land we know and where we are welcome? Why do you want to drop the cooperation I have worked so hard for us on the mainland? To get to the place you found on the map whose origin we know nothing about? How can we be sure this isn’t a suicide mission? It wouldn't be the first.”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac warned him, touching his arm. He shook his head, a sign of to keep silence. Combeferre was already opening his mouth - he had so much to say! - but he kept quiet. He didn't feel like starting an argument with Enjolras. He knew he couldn't do that. Just calling him by name would need a later explanation and work in the kitchen he hated so much.

“Suicide mission?” Enjolras took a few steps forward. Despite the cold that prevailed in the area, Combeferre could feel the warmth that radiated from him in the distance. He was like the walking sun - just as hot, beautiful, and most importantly  _ dangerous _ . He swallowed dry. He always forgot that behind his beautiful eyes were cruelties that no one could escape. “Could you tell me something about that?”

“Maybe another time,” Combeferre said, almost out of breath, adding quickly, “My captain.”

“Interesting,” Enjolras said, frowning. “I'd expect you to be muchc more heroic.”

“I don't want to argue with you,” Combeferre said so softly that some of the pirates hadn’t heard him.

“Neither do I,” Enjolras admitted with a slight smile on his face for a moment. “But I think it's time we told the truth. Don't you think?”

“Pardon?” Combeferre frowned. He had no idea what Enjolras was talking about.

Enjolras just smiled at him and turned toward the door of his cabin. “Come out.” With that, the door opened again, and a man came out into the gloom that no one had seen before. He was wearing a translucent white shirt and black leather pants. He was barefoot. His hair was black, curly, and fluttering in all directions. His face was strangely soft and his cheeks slightly pink. His lips were velvety just by sight. He had wide, gold bracelets on his neck and wrists. It meant only one thing - he was  _ a slave of love _ .

Before Enjolras could say more, Combeferre exhaled weakly, “Grantaire….” The man looked at him and immediately looked down at the ground. He couldn't look him in the eye. He was so consumed by the guilt of his own actions.

Enjolras walked over to Grantaire, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pulled him onto his body. He glanced at Combeferre before kissing him. In a moment, he forced him to open his mouth and ran his tongue into it. He dug his fingers into his hair, pulled him even closer, and his knee came dangerously close to his crotch. Grantaire moaned faintly, placing his hands on Enjolras' hips. He knew that there wasn’t a shred of love in the kiss he gave him; but the opportunity to taste him, at least for those few moments, was immersive. “Stop it!” Enjolras opened his eyes and looked at Combeferre, who was red in the face, his hands clenched into fists, and was breathing rapidly. “Stop it,” he said, his voice still strong.

“Why should I?” The captain asked as he pulled Grantaire away, who was trying to cover the rising pants in his crotch with his hands. “Didn't you do the same to him anyway?”

“It wasn't the same, it was…” He paused. He met Grantaire four months ago, at a time when he involuntarily joined Enjolras' crew. His greatest fear was his own death. And when Enjolras put the gun to his head, he promised to be one of them rather than having to feel again the fear and shame that had engulfed him as he urinated in fear. When he first anchored in the bay, Enjolras allowed him to walk through the city and gave him a few shillings to buy what he wanted. He knew what it would be when he saw a red light in the distance from a large house where all the pirates had entered, hoping to enjoy as much pleasure as possible. Combeferre searched until he found a beautiful, black-haired boy who had fulfilled everything he wanted. He looked forward to coming to him every month, to be able to make love to him for three whole days, whisper nonsense to him, and talk about the future as if they had one. “That was something else,” he said at last.

“Do you know that you should never trust anyone who is willing to be with the one who pays more?”

“Sorry?”

“Marius—” Enjolras looked at the helm where stood Marius, with a package in his hands wrapped in one of Enjolras's favorite shawls. He got it from his first lover, who robbed him of his virginity. Pirate one and even the physical. “—Throw it.” Marius obeyed, tossing the package between two friends. “Unpack it,” he told Combeferre, who listened. He knelt in front of the package and carefully untied the scarf. As soon as it revealed what was hidden inside, his pupils dilated. Without hesitation, he pulled out the pistol he had hidden on his back behind his belt and fired at Enjolras.

But Enjolras was waiting for this move. He crouched and the bullet ended up stuck somewhere in a wooden pole. He drew his sword from his waist and slashed forward with it. He stuck a weapon out of Combeferre's hand, which the others dodged until it hit the ship's edge. The elder didn’t hesitate, quickly drew his sword and pushed Enjolras away. Their swords struck each other with a loud rumble. Everyone who watched them knew that Combeferre hadn’t fought for the first time. He had a very straight stance, good technique and dodged correctly. Everyone thought he was just an ordinary servant. But where would he learn to fight like that?

However, Enjolras was a bit faster. He was able to catch every lunge and not hurt him himself. He yanked Combeferre aside a few times and almost stabbed him in the hand, but the brown haired man always dodged at the last moment. But Enjolras knew one thing - it was impossible to live at sea without fraud. Enjolras dropped his sword, grabbed the elder one by the shoulders, and kicked him in the stomach with force. He bent down quickly for the sword and cut it in Combeferre’s hand. A sword fell from it, which Enjolras kicked to the side where Grantaire was standing. “Pick it up,” he ordered. Grantaire, white as a wall and terrified of what was happening, picked up his sword and held it with both hands to keep it from falling out. Bossuet laughed softly at him, and Joly was scolding him to stop it.

Enjolras turned his attention back to Combeferre, who moaned in pain. Enjolras pierced his muscle and several tissues. He was bleeding madly, a red spot under appeared under his shoulder, and a few tears in his eyes. The blond couldn't tell if it was because of the pain or how disgraceful he was now.

“Courfeyrac,” he said suddenly, and the brunette jerked uncomfortably. “Tell me what's in it.”

Courfeyrac walked around his friends, tried to drive away the feeling of vomiting - he always had trouble looking at the blood - and knelt beside the package. There were several letters in it. He took them in his hand and examined them all. They looked normal. He was wondering what had gotten into Enjolras when he noticed the name on the corner of the letter. “They are addressed to the senator,” he said, almost out of breath, and with wide eyes he looked at Enjolras, who smiled triumphantly.

“Say his name.”

Courfeyrac swallowed. His neck was constricted and dry. “Senator Hunbert Combeferre.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and growled in pain. “Fuck...”

“What's going on here?” Jehan asked, confused.

“It's easy, Jean,” Enjolras said as he grabbed Combeferre by the collar and slammed him to the ground several times, until blood began to spray from his nose and mouth. The brown haired man didn’t defend himself. Something inside him told him that it should be so. “Here, the captive lord, only played his role of servant. He’s just an ordinary corsair—” Someone in the crew gasped loudly. "—Paid by his own father. A senator who has been trying to capture and kill us for so many months.”

Combeferre’s head rumbled to the ground. He couldn’t swallow all the blood, his ears were buzzing and he could only see the fog in front of his eyes. But he still had enough strength to turn his head and look at Grantaire, who was pale and the sword in his hand was shaking like in the strong wind. “I trusted you,” he whispered softly. “I trusted you!”

“If you scream, your wounds will hurt you more,” Enjolras said almost carefully. “Feuilly, you are my closest assistant—” He turned his head to the side and looked at the redhead, who was watching the situation quietly. “—Tell me what to do.”

“You have only two options, my captain. Capture or kill the perpetrator.”

Enjolras looked back at Combeferre, tears streaming down his cheeks. “In that case, I decide—”

Enjolras threw a blue dice. He watched it impatiently, and as soon as it stopped, he focused on Feuilly, who was sitting across from him. “Twelve,” he said aloud, leafing through his papers. “Critical hit! Captain Enjolras has decided on the death of Corsair Combeferre!”

“Oh come on!” Combeferre shouted unhappily as Feuilly took his figure in his hand and hid it back in his package.

Feuilly just shrugged. “I'm sorry, Combeferre - you're game is over.”

“Dammit,” Combeferre moaned, pursed his lips sweetly. “And I just figured out how to deceive them.” With that, he threw his notebook full of small notes on the table and sighed.

“It'll work out next time,” Grantaire said, stroking his shoulder.

“I won't sleep with you next time,” he said to him, adjusting his glasses. “Such nonsense, believe you with secret letters. I should have known I shouldn't believe your blue eyes.”

“Oh, have you noticed the color of my eyes?” Grantaire asked with false astonishment, squinting more at Combeferre. “That's so nice! How are we gonna name our children?”

“ _ Betrayal _ and  _ Dirt _ , can we continue, please?” Enjolras asked impatiently, refocusing on the playing area in front of him. “I call on the slave Grantaire to come closer with the sword and pierce Combeferre's heart.” Grantaire widened his eyes and Combeferre muttered something softly. Enjolras threw the dice again.

“Fifteen. Great! The slave had to fulfill your wish. Combeferre is dead and your position as captain is re-established. No one has any doubts about you doing everything for the crew.”

“Yes!” Enjolras shouted strangely enthusiastically, and everyone watched him with a little frightened expression. Little did they know that Enjolras was so competitive. And brutal.

“What happened to him?” Joly asked Grantaire cautiously, shaking his head.

“I made him watch a  _ Black Sails  _ with me.”

“Oh,” the others said as they understood, and Enjolras's voice filled the whole room as he sang -  _ What do we do with a drunken sailor? _


	8. Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you also know when you have a bad day? Not so much because you might be in a bad mood, but everything around you doesn't work out and you just feel that "something" isn't right? That's exactly how it is with me today. I was honestly glad that I wrote a bit of this story yesterday, otherwise I would probably go crazy. :D Today really isn't the best day to write, so I'll have coffee after this and pray for it to be better tomorrow. :) Enjoy today's chapter!

“Shirts?”

“Yes.”

“Boxers?”

“Yes.”

“Documents?”

“Yes.”

“Your favorite yellow pillow and mole plush mole?”

“I'm ashamed, but yes.”

“An—”

“Grantaire—” The brunette stopped marching around the room with the list in his hands, ticking off the items on it, and looked at Enjolras, who was sitting in a chair at the dining table, reaching his hand to him. “—Come here.” Grantaire dropped the list and immediately grabbed Enjolras' hand. Unlike him, he was beautifully warm. Enjolras pulled him to his body, buried his head in his stomach, and inhaled his scent. Grantaire smiled, put his hands on his shoulders, and bent down to kiss his hair. Enjolras pulled away from Grantaire and looked him in the face. “Don't worry, I have everything—” He grabbed his cheeks with his hands and forced him to bend down. He kissed him. As soon as Grantaire felt his velvet lips, something inside him calmed down a bit. He closed his eyes so he could enjoy the kiss, but it ended as soon as it began. He growled in displeasure, and Enjolras laughed, his fingers touching his lips and then the stubble that began to sprout on his chin. He had complained several times that after kissing his whole mouth was swollen and his face was constantly scratched. Grantaire then began to trim his beard to their dates, and since they started living together - and that was almost two years now - Grantaire had shaved every other day. No one saw him with a beard anymore. He looked younger and his beautiful, light blue eyes stood out more. “—Except you,” he whispered dreamily, wanting to kiss Grantaire again.

“Ugh, I'll throw up from that sweet chatter,” the brunette protested, covering Enjolras's mouth. He growled something incomprehensible, and Grantaire laughed. He leaned his nose against his and looked into his eyes, still not taking his hand from his lips. “If you talked like that yesterday, I wouldn't let you sleep all night.”

Enjolras licked his palm with his tongue and Grantaire whistled in surprise. He pulled his hand back to his body and Enjolras smiled triumphantly. “I couldn't afford that, I had to sleep for today.”

“Sleep? Look!” Grantaire shouted in horror, pointing to a window from which almost nothing could be seen. Just the lights of lamps and cars that passed by from time to time. “Who normally gets up at four in the morning?”

“People like me. You see, working people. So, everyone but you.”

Grantaire sat on Enjolras' lap and put his hands on his shoulders again, his fingers clenched in the soft fabric of his luxurious blue shirt, and growled, “Watch your mouth or you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, really? Will you beat me?” Enjolras asked with a raised eyebrow and a grin on his face.

Grantaire wasn't waiting for anything. He threw himself on his lips again and began kissing him hungrily. He used his tongue to examine every bit of his lips, sucking his taste, pounding his nose and teeth into him. He wanted to remember his taste, the warmth that radiated from him, the touches he gave him. He could feel the blond man breathing loudly and his fingers clenching into his thighs. When he raised his leg so he could throw it over Enjolras's side, the younger one stopped him. “What—?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” The blond asked in a voice the other didn't recognize. He licked his lips with his tongue to get the last drops of his taste. Enjolras studied him - how his hair was still tousled and sticking out in all directions; the way his mouth and cheeks were red from how he couldn't catch his breath; the way his red sweater hung on him, which was too big for him and revealed a bare shoulder; how his eyes were suddenly dark and his pupils dilated with hunger; the way he hugged him and felt the coldness, which he always tried to replace with his warmth; but he was mainly thinking about how much he would miss him.

He swallowed. He leaned in again, but this time he pressed his lips to his neck. Grantaire moaned pleasingly. He began massaging Enjolras's hair with his fingers, and when he felt the younger kissing him with only gentle, butterfly kisses, he sighed, “I don't know if I’ll make it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered in a slightly hoarse voice. He had no idea if it was a warning not to start the conversation, or if he was just horny. He pulled away from his partner, took his cheeks in his hands and looked into his eyes. Grantaire wanted to look away, but as soon as he looked into his sky blue eyes, he couldn’t escape. He always felt like he was looking at the angel himself. “I won't be gone for a long time.”

“A year, Apollo,” Grantaire whispered, placing a palm on one of his hands and sighing. “A year.” He began to play with his fingers.

“I’ll call as much as I can,” he promised him again, like several times this month.

“You won't be here for Christmas,” Grantaire tried to make him feel guilty. He knew how important this period was to him. These were the only holidays he couldn’t celebrate alone. He always felt miserable. But since he had Enjolras, he had fallen in love with them again. And now, after five years of knowing him, three years of dating him and two years of living with him and planning their future; does he need to feel that loneliness again? He was selfish. He knew it. But he hoped it would affect Enjolras.

“Not even for the New Year, but that doesn't mean I'm not coming back.” Enjolras wasn’t taken aback. When Grantaire first mentioned it, he felt guilty. He didn't know what to do, and every time he left for work and saw Grantaire sad looks, he felt bad. Whenever he reached his office, he wanted to go to his boss and ask him to cancel his business trip. He could imagine the boss firing him rather than hurting Grantaire. But every time he said to himself he needs to do it for the two of them. And he tried to confirm it at any moment — even as he began to obtain a visa, and Grantaire threw a copy out the window; even though he began to buy the things he would need and they began to mysteriously get lost in his apartment; even as he began to pack, and Grantaire suddenly changed his mind that he must also wear the clothes that belonged to his partner, because  _ that’s what couples do _ ; although Grantaire buy a calendar in protest and ticked it off with a sad smiley faces every day until the day of his departure.

It was hard, but Enjolras, as always, stood his ground. Grantaire after three months of psychological terror, when he himself admitted that he might have exaggerated; one evening he turned in bed to Enjolras, wrapped his arms around his hips, pressed his back against his bare chest, dug his nose into his shoulder, and whispered,  _ “Could I help you with something before you’ll go?”  _ And since then Enjolras's business trip has finally stopped being taboo.

The pain that comes every time he remembers that they will not see each other for a year -  _ whole year!  _ \- was still there. But at least Grantaire had a chance to deal with everything. A month before his leave, Enjolras decided to make Grantaie happy. He bought him a Maine Coon kitten. That evening, Grantaire cried with joy and sorrow. And maybe that was what he needed all along. Enjolras hugged him, kissed his hair, whispered nonsense, and the kitten in his lap purred happily and wagged his tail. They made love that night until morning.

“I'll have to go,” Enjolras said, pulling Grantaire out of his memory. He looked at the clock above the refrigerator. It was a little after half past four. A taxi had been waiting outside for Enjolras for five minutes.

Grantaire took a breath to say something, but instead he gritted his teeth. He frowned. He felt two emotions mingle in him - anger and sadness. He didn't want to feel either now. He noticed the blond looking at him and quickly got up from his lap, trying not to notice that their  _ activity  _ had some effect on both of them. “I'll get dressed quickly, wait for me outside.” With that, he ran into their bedroom, pulled on the first pants he saw, and pulled his only long coat out of the closet. He looked at himself in the mirror and quickly put it on. He refused to take off Enjolras' sweater. He still wanted to feel that something was left in his apartment after him.

He hurried out the door, where Enjolras was already waiting for him, leaning against the cab and talking to the cabbie as if they were old friends. Grantaire had to smile when he heard his soft laughter. Even this situation didn’t force him to stop loving Enjolras. “He’s too great,” he sighed as he joined them and they got inside the car.

The way to the airport was short, perhaps because of the way Enjolras held his hand, or because the taxi driver had put on the radio where the world's latest hits played and Grantaire was singing softly. He saw Enjolras looking at him and smiling.  _ I'll miss this _ , the blond thought, preferring to look outside so as not to do something stupid and start kissing Grantaire again.

As they got out of the car, they picked up both of Enjolars' suitcases and entered the airport lobby; they were surprised at how few people were there. For the most days, the airports were full, but now, in the morning, in the cold, in the fall, and on Thursdays, it seemed that many people didn’t travel to other countries. And definitely not as far as a blonde. “Good morning,” Enjolras greeted the young lady behind the counter, who smiled brightly at him. Grantaire couldn't help but notice how the girl slightly blushed and straightened the restless strip of hair behind her ear. The brunette rolled her eyes.  _ They're all the same _ , he thought, glancing at Enjolras,  _ but I don't blame them, I'm the same myself. _ “I'm flying with FR245.”

The girl clicked the number on the computer. “Direct flight to Tokyo to Haneda Airport?” As soon as she said the name of the destination Enjolras was flying to, Grantaire had to go sit down. If he flew to Italy, Spain or Portugal; it might be easier. They would still be on the same continent. But like this? Japan was far away. An island state beyond the sea, the sea which Grantaire had feared since childhood. With a culture that neither really knew, let alone understand. He was scared. Not just about what could happen, but about Enjolras. He was accommodating, kind, his charisma enchanted everyone; but was there a possibility that his spell would have no effect in the land of the rising sun?

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked as he approached him, holding the boarding pass in his hand. “You're a little pale…”

“I'm just thirsty!” He shouted, getting up quickly and walking to the vending machine where he bought the sweetest lemonade they had on offer. Enjolras just sighed. He knew it would be difficult for both of them. The flight was approaching, and he himself felt his toes tapping and nervously stepping from one foot to the other.  _ Will we be okay?,  _ He asked himself as he and Grantaire sat in the plastic seats, waiting for the speaker dispatcher to tell him he could board.

It took less time than they both expected. Grantaire was just resting his head on Enjolras's shoulder and playing with his fingers; when the announcement was made and several passengers rose from their seats and left for the gate through which Enjolras was to pass. He first looked in the direction and took a deep breath. Grantaire saw him repeat this several times. It was a breathing exercise they had been practicing together for several years after Grantaire discovered that Enjolras was suffering from severe, panic attacks. He was as nervous as he was.  _ You have to be strong. For him, _ Grantaire thought to himself as he jumped to his feet and said positively, “It's time to fly.”

Enjolras looked at him and smiled, accepted his outstretched hand, stood up, and immediately squeezed him into a firm, strong hug. He inhaled his scent again, as he had done in their apartment. “You're sniffing me again,” Grantaire laughed, but everything about his smile was fake. “Why are you doing this?”

“I want to remember your scent when I'm not here.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered hoarsely, his nose digging into his shoulder. He sniffed with the same force as his partner.

Enjolras laughed softly. “It tickles,” he complained.

Grantaire smiled at his shoulder. “I'll miss you,” he said at last. He knew it was good to avoid such words, but he had to say it. He had to be sure that Enjolras wouldn’t forget that he would always be waiting for him here with open arms. “Don't fall in love there,” he added at once, so that his words wouldn’t be so serious.

Enjolras was glad for that. “I should rather tell you this, shouldn't I?” With that, he pulled Grantaire away, but he still held his hips quite tightly. Grantaire frowned at him, indicating that he didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Combeferre will now lead the  _ Les Ámis _ , and I know how weak you are for a leaders. Will I have a place to go back? Or will you replace me with another  _ Apollo _ ?”

“You're a jerk,” Grantaire laughed, poking his side. When he saw Enjolras laugh from the heart, his whole chest filled with happiness. “But I promise nothing,” he added, sticking his tongue out at him.

Enjolras was already inhaling to say something, but he knew he wasn't good at saying goodbye. It was still something he hadn't learned in years. Instead, he leaned over the brunette and kissed him once more on the mouth. There was no desire, no passion, no hint of frustration as before. Just pure love and happiness.

Grantaire returned the kiss, but only for a brief moment. He pushed weakly into him and pulled away from him. “You should go,” he told him in a firm voice.

That was what Enjolras needed to hear. He nodded. He slung a backpack over his shoulder with a laptop and several books to keep him from getting bored on the fly in it. With that, he went to the gate, had his ticket checked, and when they indicated that he could go in, he looked at Grantaire, who was still standing in the same place, watching him without blinking. He waved at him and the brunette returned the gesture.

Grantaire remained in the lobby until he saw Enjolras's plane take off from the ground and fly higher and higher. When the plane was out of sight, he put his hand on the cold glass and said quietly, “I'll be waiting for you.”

Only at this moment he finally let his tears flow freely down his face.


	9. Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uff, I was afraid I wouldn't make it today. I didn’t have much to for writing, plus my left hand hurts from writing every day (or it may be thank how much I play and do stupid things with my child. Yeah, that’s more likely. :D ), but I was looking forward to it today and enjoyed it more than yesterday.
> 
> PS: Yes, I have headcanon for first names of all of the Les Ámis boys. You’ll learn Grantaire’s today! :)

“And the winner is - Christiane Grantaire!” The moment the judge raised Grantaire's hand up, there was cheers and loud applause in the hall. Grantaire smiled broadly, trying to catch his breath and ignore the pain all over his body. After the judge released him, the other man who was short of his breath and his upper lip was a little torn and bleeding, started patting him amiably on the back. He apologized softly, but the man just shook his head, pulled him closer to his bare, sweaty chest, and congratulated him again.

Grantaire took over the gold cup and the small amount of cash handed to him by a man in a gray suit. It was clear from the look that he wasn’t a boxer, but a sponsor who was looking for promising talents for his best team among young men. “Call me,” he said to Grantaire quietly so that no one could hear him, and discreetly slipped his business card into the money envelope. He glanced at him as he said goodbye, and in a moment he left the hall, where the fans decided to congratulate Grantaire as close as possible.

As soon as he received his first congratulations from a friend he had been boxing with since high school, a hand flew in from somewhere, pulling him from the stage to the auditorium. He staggered and almost fell to the ground, but as soon as he smelled the familiar scent of skin and oil, he calmed down and began to laugh. “Congratulations man!” Bahorel shouted as he huddled on him and scratched his thick, black hair several times with his fingers. “Ugh, you're disgustingly sweaty,” he protested as he pushed him away. If there was no ring behind him, he would certainly have fallen this time.

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, almost out of breath. “I had no idea I would win,” he admitted.

“That was clear to us from the beginning!” Courfeyrac protested, who finally reached through the crowd and wrapped his arms around Grantaire so he could kiss him on the cheek. “You're the best!” Grantaire just laughed and returned the kiss on the cheek. “What was that for?” Courfeyrac asked in surprise. He always tried to convince everyone that kissing on the cheek was the most accommodating gesture among friends and that they should kiss normally like this. But he hasn't convinced any of his friends yet. Therefore, he wasn’t only surprised, but mainly pleased.

“For watching the match.”

“Two sweaty guys fighting in the ring and rolling over each other? Please, I should thank you for doing this kind of sport.”

“Don't you want to cool down a little?” Bahorel asked as he rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, Bahorel, I just admire the beautiful male bodies.”

“Can you do it somewhere else, please?” Bahorel approached Grantaire, placed his elbow on his shoulder, and said loud enough for everyone in the auditorium to hear, “You should have heard him. All the time -  _ Look at those triceps; Look at those firm legs; Hey, look how smooth he is, where do you think he shaves? Everywhere?; Look look how short his shorts are, I don't even need to use imagination. _ Disgusting.”

“It only bothers you because everyone in the ring had a better body than you,” Courfeyrac said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Excuse me!?”

As Bahorel began to squirm and protest that _ he had never seen a better body in his life, _ Courfeyrac focused on their black-haired friend, who was still looking for someone with his eyes. It didn't take him long to figure out what he was up to. He chuckled, ignoring Bahorel, and tapping Grantaire on the shoulder. When the brunette looked at him, Courfeyrac pointed toward the tribune above the auditorium, which was right next to the ring. “Over there.” Jehan leaned against the railing, smiling broadly and waving at Grantaire constantly; Enjolras stood behind him, his hands folded in his pockets, nodding his head in greeting. “He's been here the whole time,” he whispered in his ear.

At that moment, Grantaire could only feel his heart pounding. “I have to take a shower,” he said suddenly, without letting Bahorel argue that  _ he definitely had the best body _ . They both just nodded, let him walk past them into the locker room, and went to the tribune with their friends again.

Grantaire met a couple of men in the locker room, who congratulated him and disappeared with their backpacks. In a moment, Grantaire was alone in the locker room. He pulled his backpack from one of the lockers, took out his clean clothes, and went to the shower. He sighed contentedly as hot drops of water touched his sticky body. He already needed it - to feel satisfied for a moment.

Grantaire has been boxing since high school. Originally, it was just to learn to defend himself from the boys in his classroom, who were bullying him and waiting for him almost every day in front of the school to beat him up. But even after learning a few grips and the boys giving him peace after a few fights he won; found that he would miss the box. He never thought that with his sensitive nature as an artist, he would join a sport in which there was neither beauty, nor nobility, nor any deeper meaning. Even after years of boxing, everyone was trying to convince him that it was a sport as beautiful as the other; he didn't understand it. He enjoyed fights, feeling his strength, getting the best out of himself, sometimes feeling someone more powerful above him and aiming to defeat him; but he had never seen anything deeper than _fun_ in it.

That's why he felt bad when the coach asked him two months ago if he would like to participate in an amateur tournament for their team. He knew many boys from the lessons, who not only were hungry for such a place, but also deserved it. However, the goosebumps jumped at the thought of refusing and he couldn’t say  _ no _ . It was almost as if he had completely forgotten the word. So he came home that evening with an application, which he left lying on the kitchen table and couldn't sleep until he filled it out. His heart was pounding and he had to admit that he was actually looking forward to it. After a few years, when he had no purpose and was just going through life without any goal in his head; suddenly he found something he really wanted. He wanted to win.

And he succeeded today. Although he was tired, beaten, he kept thinking that the strange pain in his side and his breathing in one lung might not be alright and he should go to the doctor; he was smiling. As he left the shower and stopped in front of a large mirror, he noticed that although several opponents tried to inflict a few blows to his face, he always defended himself. Unlike the body, which was already strewn with red spots that slowly turned yellow or dark purple.

When he went back to the locker room to get dressed, he thought about how strange it felt to see his friends smiling and being proud of him.  _ Proud of him _ . Just the thought made his heart pound. It was normal for each of them to succeed in life. Even Bossuet, who was constantly unlucky, was able to succeed at least in the most basic of his life - he went back to school, found a job and even had two loving partners. But Grantaire doesn’t. He always stood outside, wondering if there was anything he could show off to his friends. He didn't come up with anything, so he kept quiet.

But today they saw him fighting. How he fought to be the best. And their smiles showed how proud they were of him. Even Enjolras, who still had a neutral expression on his face, looked satisfied by his standards.

_ Enjolras _ . Just the mention of his name made Grantaire stop getting dressed for a while, and if anyone walked into the locker room, he would see how comically Grantaire got stuck while putting on his sock.  _ Enjolras _ . He had no idea he would be here today. Bahorel loved boxing as much as he did, so it was clear he was coming. Courfeyrac was able to support his friends in everything, so he attended all of Jehan's poems night, Combeferre’s anime lectures at festivals, Joly's amateur stand-ups, or accompanied Feuilly on night larps. Jehan saw beauty in everything, so he took the tournament only as another way to draw inspiration for his next work - even from the ring he saw papers and a pencil sticking out of his pocket, he certainly wrote something during the matches. But Enjolras? He never went anywhere. Nothing but their revolutionary group interested him, and it was sometimes hard enough to persuade him to go to a bar with the others after a meeting.  _ Courfeyrac must have persuaded him _ , he told himself. _ Or not? _

He shook his head. He couldn't let such stupidity creep into his head that Enjolras was so interested in his tournament that he was willing to sacrifice one Friday afternoon for him. He couldn't feel  _ special _ .

He slung his backpack over his shoulder, walked out of the locker room, and returned to the hall. In the corner stood two ladies with mops, talking quietly; there was a man sitting in the stands, whom he had just held in a hurry on the ground minutes ago, and now he was too busy kissing his girlfriend; and next to the ring— “Enjolras,” Grantaire said in surprise. When the blond heard his name, he looked at Grantaire, put his hands in his pockets again, and let him walk to him. “I had no idea you were coming.”

“Why wouldn't I come?” Enjolras asked.

“I didn't even know you knew about it.”

“Bahorel told me. About two weeks ago.”

“Oh so.”

“Combeferre sent his congratulations to you on winning. He's sorry he couldn't get there. He’s still in his medical practice in the children's ward.”

“Did he meet a pretty, single mother there?”

“When he left, a child threw up on him and he had nothing else to change, so a nurse went to buy him something and he’s still waiting for her at the nurse's office.”

“Ugh,” Grantaire said, shaking. Although he was constantly drinking and had a lot of experiences from toilets, which he talked about especially at the most inopportune moment, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t find it disgusting. “But Joly is the same, I've only seen him once since he started his practice in the hospital.”

“What department is he working on?”

“Gastroenterology.” Immediately, there was silence between them, which was sometimes broken only by wet sounds from a couple in the stands, or a disgusted remark from the cleaners in the corner. Enjolras didn't mind, but Grantaire was nervous. He never had many opportunities to be alone with Enjolras. In fact, he didn't remember any events where they could talk to each other, and he certainly didn't want to miss a moment like that. “Where are the others, anyway?” He asked.

“They went to smoke. Maybe we should join them. Then they want to go to the bar with you.” Grantaire's eyes lit up. Enjolras frowned. “I probably shouldn't have told you that.”

“It doesn't matter,” Grantaire laughed. “Are you going too?” He hoped he couldn't hear how much he wanted it.

“Yes of course.” Grantaire took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart. He counted to three and exhaled. Enjolras noticed his breathing exercises and frowned. This was recommended to him by a doctor when he complained of severe, panic attacks in which he couldn’t move properly, let alone breathe. “Are you all right?” He asked him cautiously, already looking for a place to settle and buy water.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said breathlessly and louder than he intended. “It just made me happy. Overall. That’s all of you thinked of me. Actually, I'm pretty surprised you came. You didn't have to. But that doesn't mean I don't like seeing you! Lots of! Really! I believe you had a lot of other interesting things for the evening, this is really cool.” Enjolras just growled at the sign that he understood. “Well, I'll probably have to prepare for Courfeyrac’s melting over the bodies of the boys I competed with, and Bahorel will criticize me again for waving my arms.”

“Waving your arms?” Enjolras asked.

“Yeah, like that—” He waved his left hand in front of his face, his hand clenched into a fist. “—I don't have a very good grip, my hand always flies too high.”

“I'd rather focus on the stance of your feet, sometimes you've had them unnecessarily far apart.”

“Well, the coach complains about it all the time,” Grantaire said, looking at the toes of his shoes. He watched them for a moment before he realized what Enjolras just said. “Wait, what?” He asked in surprise, looking at him.

Enjolras was as neutral as ever. “You can't keep your balance like that. You will always fall to one side. This will make it easier for your opponent to deceive you and throw you to the ground.”

“How do you know all this?” Grantaire would have expected something like this from Combeferre. He was able to read several books of theory about everything. Therefore, he was able to talk to him about absolutely everything. He was like a walking encyclopedia.

“I was in krav maga class for four years, then I switched to Thai boxing, but I ended my lessons a year ago. I didn't have enough time to go to training thanks to school. Now I only go to self-defense once a week.”

“What?” Grantaire rolled his eyes and opened his mouth. This was completely new information for him. “Does anyone know about this?” He asked in surprise.

“Combeferre and Courfeyrac. I don't know about the others, I've never talked to them about it.”

“Why didn't you tell us?”

Enjolras frowned. “Should I? It never occurred to me that we would ever talk about what clubs we go to. I also found out about your boxing a year ago from Feuilly when you were missing all our meetings in the spring. Without excuses,” he reminded him a little venomously.

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire said, but he didn't even think about it. The image of Enjolras, who looked like an ethereal being, rolling on the ground with fingerless gloves on his hands, trying to beat the man beneath him; it came to him a little -  _ comical _ . He didn't want to offend Enjolras, but he laughed. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him. “I'm sorry,” he apologized seriously this time. “I just can't imagine you fighting.”

Enjolras shrugged. He didn't care. “I never imagined you in fighting. And you surprised me today.”

“It would be a surprise to me to see you, too.” He bit his tongue so as not to admit out loud that it would certainly be exciting. “I wonder how strong you are,” he admitted quietly.

“Do you want to know?” The blond asked seriously, pointing to the ring. “We can try.”

“Don't be silly,” Grantaira laughed. “I’m stronger.”

Grantaire didn’t miss how Enjolras' eyes changed. Suddenly they were a little darker. He frowned. “Come.” He didn't wait for his answer and entered the ring. Grantaire studied him for a moment, and when he saw him going into the middle of the ring and waited for the brunette to approach him; he laughed again. He dropped his backpack from his back and followed him. He tried not to notice the uncomfortable pain in his side and chest, the pounding of his heart. “Can we start?” The brunette, who still couldn't believe the situation, nodded. Enjolras clapped his hands. The sound started their fight.

Grantaire took his fighting position, put his hands in front of him, and even though he was right-handed, attacked with his left hand. He spread his legs and began to jump on tiptoes. Enjolras spread his legs slightly, put his fists in front of his chest, hunched a little, and tilted his head so that his fists covered his face. He took a deep breath and looked at Grantaire straight in the eye. His gaze forced him to throw his left hand right in front of him. It wasn't until his knuckles touched Enjolras's face that he realized how hard he was attacking. If he hit him, he would surely break his nose.

But he missed. Enjolras crouched, just below Grantaire's chin, his hands gripping his right hand. He turned him, wrapped his arm behind his back, put his knee on his shoulders. Grantaire whimpered in pain and rested his free hand on the ground. He was kneeling on all fours now. “But this is a grip from self-defense,” Grantaire complained.

“I told you,” he said, leaning even closer to him. Grantaire felt all his weight on his back, and leaned even more to the ground. “You should be careful about one more thing. You use your left hand too much. It will become weird for smarter opponents over time. I know you, so I know why you're doing it. You're protecting the hand you're painting with. You may like boxing, but you love painting. What would you do if you couldn't paint for a month for example?” Enjolras's grip was a little stronger. Grantaire could swear he heard the bones crack in his hand. “Don't make it so easy for me,” he said as he released him, and Grantaire fell to the ground with a loud rumble. He immediately got up and looked at Enjolras, who was smiling playfully. He had never seen such a look on him before. But he definitely liked it.

Grantaire smiled, got to his feet, and regained his position. “Don't worry, I won't make the same mistake again.” He immediately used his left hand again to hit him. However, the attack wasn’t aimed at his face, but at his stomach. However, Enjolras soon swerved and attacked him from behind. But Grantaire turned fast enough to deflect his attack.

In a moment they had forgotten that they were friends,they had forgotten why they were standing here for, and they both had only one goal - to win. Grantaire attacked mostly with his hands, trying to hit Enjolras in the shoulders, abdomen or hips. He didn't understand why all his attacks were so strong. His heart screamed at him that if he really punched him, he could hurt Enjolras a lot. But he couldn't stop. Enjolras was quick, he managed to avoid all his attacks and always attacked at the least expected moment. 

But Grantaire had only one great advantage. He trained three times a week, for several years. Enjolras was already training just for fun, and his training no longer involved competing with others. Over time, all of Enjolras' attacks became predictable, and Grantaire didn't have much to do to trip his leg and get him to the ground. Enjolras fought back, trying to kick him in the stomach, but Grantaire stopped his leg. He pushed him under him, pressing him to the ground by one hand on the side, grabbing both of his wrists with the other and pressing them over his head. Enjolras tried to free himself from the grip, but in a moment he was running out of strength. As his attempts to free himself became shorter and weaker, Grantaire grinned triumphantly and asked, “Are you giving up?”

“Never,” Enjolras said breathlessly, trying several times to shake off his friend. The harder he tried, the stronger Grantaire’s grip was. The brunette was a little shorter than he was, but weighed almost twenty pounds more. Once Grantaire settled on his thighs, he had no chance of getting up. “But—” He finally stopped fighting from side to side and looked at Grantaire, “—you're strong. Stronger than me.” Enjolras sighed, with a little smile on his face. “I admit - you won.” Enjolras tried to calm his heart so he could finally breathe normally. How long has it been since he last fought in practice? Four, five months? It should have been clear to him from the beginning that he would lose. So why—

“You're beautiful,” Grantaire breathed thoughtlessly.

“W-what, please?” Enjolras asked softly, blinking in surprise.

“You're beautiful,” he repeated. Grantaire kept looking at Enjolras. His hair was tousled and stuck to his sweaty forehead. A drop of sweat ran down his face. His pupils were dilated and he blinked slowly, as if he were sleepy. His cheeks were pink. His lips were swollen and he constantly ran his tongue around them. As soon as Grantaire told him the  _ damn  _ sentence, he bit his lower lip. Grantaire shivered. It did  _ something  _ to a part of his body he didn't want to think about now. Not when they rubbed so close— “Oh,” he breathed, and the look from Enjolras's lips went a little lower, where their crotches rubbed against each other.

Enjolras did the same, and the pink on his cheeks turned dark red. He took a deep breath, and his voice stuck in his throat several times before he could stutter, “T-this doesn't n-normally happen to me.”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire whispered, looking at him again. He let go of his wrist and moved his hand to his cheek. As Enjolras felt his hot palm on his skin, he winced. He looked at Grantaire and swallowed dry. Were Grantaire's eyes always so light blue? And his hair so curly? And his sweat so shiny and sweet-smelling? “I—”

“Ehm—” They both quickly turned to the side where Courfeyrac stood, leaning his elbows on the ring, his hands under his chin, and smiling slyly, “—I'm interrupting?”

“We were just trying something here,” Enjolras said as he pushed into Grantaire and forced him to get off of him. He got up quickly and moved the sweatshirt as close to his crotch as possible so  _ that,  _ what Grantaire still couldn't take his eyes off, couldn’t be seen. “Are we going?” With that, he jumped out of the ring and hurried to the front door.

As he disappeared outside the door, Courfeyrac looked at Grantaire, who was still frozen on the ground, staring into space in front of him. “Good?” Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac, and though he could see how curious he was and wanted to ask a lot of questions, he preferred to smile kindly at him.

“S-sure,” Grantaire said when he finally recovered, took his backpack, and left the hall with Courfeyrac.

Other friends joined them at the bar to celebrate Grantaire's victory. But everyone noticed that Grantaire had been paying the most attention to Enjolras all evening, which cheeks turned pink every time their eyes met.


	10. Crisp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think about why I like and it’s actually so easy to write romantic stories. I guess I just need to know that my favorite characters are happy!

The old lady came out of her apartment, locked the door behind her, and checked that her dog leash was set correctly. The white dog sat on the ground, breathing contentedly and looking ahead. “Come on,” she said impatiently, tugging at the leash. But the dog was still sitting in his place. “What's going on?” She asked him, as if waiting for an answer. She looked ahead at the place her dog was looking at. She squinted and finally saw two grown-up figures in front of her.

One of them was Enjolras, a neighbor who moved in two years ago. There was occasional loud laughter from his apartment when his two friends came for visit, one tall with glasses on his nose and the other smaller, noisy, always dressed in bright colors; but otherwise he was always quiet. Sometimes she met him in the hallway, he helped her with shopping bags, freeing up space in the elevator. When he was on duty in the hallway, it was always perfectly clean and smelled wonderful. To top of it, he was very beautiful, reminding her of her lover from Slovakia, where she was spending all her holidays as a young lady. She always told herself that she would one day introduce him to her eldest daughter, who apparently decided to die alone in the arms of a dozen cats. But her plan seemed to have one big flaw.

Opposite Enjolras was a man, a little shorter, with thick black hair and a jacket slung over his shoulders, which must have belonged to the blonde man before him. She had seen him several times and always wrinkled her nose as she passed him, smelling the scent of cigarette smoke. But each time she met him, the scent was less obvious. Over time, he began to greet her, and even though she could smell strong alcohol on his breath six months ago, a few months ago she was sure she could only smell a paste and something sweet. But she still felt the _ "something"  _ that kept her from getting to know him better.

And now she finally understood what it was.

Enjolras was leaning his back against the wall next to his apartment door, his hands resting on the hips of his partner, who was pressing against him and kissing him hungrily on the lips. His hands were buried in his white shirt, and he moaned into his mouth as if he were constantly trying to tell him something. He stood on tiptoe, trying to get as close as possible to the blond, who laughed into their kiss and his hands slowly slid lower and lower. As they touched the hem of his pants and began to play with the belt, the brunette grunted contentedly, bent one leg, and touched his boyfriend's crotch.

“Um—” The old woman cleared her throat, and Enjolras quickly pushed the brunette away. He caught his hands on the railing so as not to fall on the stairs. They both looked at her in surprise, their faces red, their lips swollen. “—I just need to go this direction,” she said as she walked between them with her dog and walked slowly down the stairs. “Animals,” she whispered softly, a smile on her face.

They both heard her, of course. Grantaire laughed, Enjolras placing a hand on his face and moaning, “It will be a hot topic at the next tenants' meeting.”

“Does that bother you?” The brunette asked as he approached him again and began kissing his neck. Still tasting like a cologne, he grinned and moved his lips to his face, forehead, nose, and kissed him again. This time more innocent than before. Enjolras returned the kiss, closed his eyes, and began stroking his arms with his hands. Even under his jacket, he could feel his muscles. For the past year, Grantaire has been trying to get in shape. Originally just because he wanted to lose weight, but he fell in love with exercise so much that he could slowly start taking it as his new hobby. Enjolras certainly didn’t complain. It was nice to feel every change on his body. He touched him admiringly on his shoulders and arms, which gradually hardened and took shape. Although he had to admit that he would miss his soft belly. He therefore tried to supply him with sweets so that he wouldn’t disappear so quickly. “Thank you,” Grantaire whispered as he pulled away so he could breathe.

“You don't have to thank me, I was happy to do it,” Enjolras said truthfully, playing with his strands of hair. They were stiff as Grantaire sprayed several doses of gel into them. He kept complaining about his curls, which he hated so much, and tried to tame them by all possible ways. 

“Best birthday,” Grantaire said, burying his nose in his chest. He hugged him tightly around his hips and took a deep breath of his scent. “Thank you,” he repeated. Enjolras wrapped his arms around him and smiled contentedly.

They have known each other for several years, but only a few months ago were they finally able to admit that what was between them was definitely not a friendship. They tried to tell themself that they were arguing at the _Les Ámis_ meetings because they had such different opinions, but they did it to get to know each other. They thought that the reason they didn't spend time outside with a group of their friends was because they just didn't have as many common interests to talk about, but in reality they were just nervous about standing next to each other. They hoped that the pounding of their hearts every time they saw the other meant just that they wanted to be as far away from each other as possible, but in fact… Enjolras smiled. Every time he remembered how he and Grantaire met in the park, feeding pigeons together by the fountain, Grantaire apologized for having to go, and suddenly he turned and shouted nervously: _Won't you go on a date with me?!;_ he had to laugh.He could feel how hot his face became, and maybe he was as red as Grantaire at the time. He could only nod his head, and in the evening they agreed to go together to the pub Corinth, which was on the other side of Paris. It wasn't until half an hour of awkward silence later, one beer and two shots of tequila, that they were able to laugh about it and tell each other how they felt. They blushed, sometimes had no idea what to say, the atmosphere around them was dense but sweet, and they both knew that even though they weren't perfect, it was the best they had experienced.

And so they started dating. They told their friends, who congratulated them, and although they noticed that some of them - Combeferre and Joly - were not quite the happiest, apparently, as their best friends, the two of them were afraid to not get hurt; nothing stopped them. Even in those few months, it had almost become routine that they wrote to each other in the morning after waking up and in the evening before going to bed; Enjolras picked up Grantaire from school every Thursday with hot coffee in his hand and they sat together in the park on campus; Grantaire picked up Enjolras every Tuesday after working for Dr. Lamarque, and they went to a Mexican restaurant at the end of the street. They kissed for the first time by accident - Grantaire was at Enjolras to watch a new film and they both fell asleep. Enjolras woke up late for school, quickly jumped to his feet, ran to the bedroom to change, and when he reached the living room, Grantaire waited for him with the sweet toast.  _ “I can't do anything else faster,” _ he said, almost apologetically. Enjolras couldn't take his eyes off him - his hair was sticking out in all directions, his clothes were crumpled, his cheeks a little red, he was sleepy and a warm blanket was wrapped around his shoulders - and when he felt the warm feeling on his chest from what Grantaire had done for him — because he knew that when the blond didn't eat breakfast in the morning, he fainted almost every time — he couldn't resist, leaned over him, kissed him, thanked him, and ran out the door with a toast in his hand. Only in the subway he saw his reflection in the window and how red he was. Grantaire picked him up unexpectedly after school, smiled, held Enjolras's favorite chocolate in his hand, and kissed him before even greeting him. Enjolras was taken aback, but immediately laughed and kissed him again. It has become a tradition that every time they saw and said goodbye, they always kissed.

Enjolras pressed even harder on Grantaire and sniffed the scent of his hair. They smelled like strawberries. He didn't know if it was thanks to one of his shampoo or the spray itself was to blame. “You smell beautiful,” he said instead of what he really had on his tongue -  _ I love you _ . It was still too early.

“You too,” Grantaire said dreamily, finally pulling away from Enjolras. He kissed him and asked, “What now?”

“What now?” Enjolras repeated confusedly, frowning a little.

“Well, do you want to say goodbye or do you...?” He left the question open.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathed as he realized what Grantaire wanted to ask. Although they kissed, touched occasionally, and a week ago Grantaire was allowed to touch Enjolras, and in the silence and darkness of his bedroom he satisfied him through his pants; but they never slept with each other. They spent some night together, but innocently and with nothing more than a long kiss at goodnight. They decided not to hurry and let their relationship flow freely. But every time they were alone together, something in them broke up. Sometimes they didn't say anything all night because they were too busy with kissing, and their fingers had no idea if they should hold onto thick hair or discover the muscles of the others body. They were afraid to be alone together because they knew they wouldn’t be able to control themselves. And they wanted to go slow.

Slow. It was Enjolras' idea. Grantaire was his first partner, if he didn’t count how he kissed a drunken captain of their football team in his sophomore year of high school. And he didn't want to do anything wrong. He wanted to enjoy their time together. He didn't want to be boring for Grantaire, even though Courfeyrac laughed at him for it, because y _ ou're like Mona Lisa, people still go to look at her, even everyone already knows how she looks.  _

But today he wanted to take Grantaire with him. He wanted to pour him hot tea and give him cookies that had long been prepared for him on the kitchen table. He wanted to fill for him a hot bath with bubbles and wash him with his favorite orange shower gel. He wanted to lend him his clothes, to see his T-shirt being too wide, revealing his white freckled shoulder, and stepping on his long pants. He wanted to put it in his soft duvets. He wanted to cuddle with him until morning.

“Okay,” Enjolras said, a little uncertainty, finding the keys in his pocket and unlocking them. An unpleasant odor flickered in his nose as he opened the door. He frowned. What the— He slammed the door shut. There was a barking of a dog in the hallway, startled by the sound. “Um,” Enjolras began, scratching his hair. His plan had only one flaw. Those damn cookies! How could he forget? He turned to Grantaire, who was looking at him in confusion. “...Not today. Not yet.”

“Oh, sure,” Grantaire said, trying to sound cheerful. But Enjolras noticed something disappointing in his eyes. It was his birthday.  _ Grantaire’s birthday _ . And Enjolras wanted them to be exceptional. From the morning he wrote him love text messages every hour, had him send flowers to school, picked him up from practice with coffee in hand, came to Grantaire's house, asked him to wear something comfortable, and then went with him to a luxury restaurant with a look at the sea and sunset. Grantaire smiled all day, eagerly eating selected delicacies, sipping delicious wine, and couldn't believe it when Enjolras handed him a package containing several expensive brushes and a palette of paints he'd been looking at for so long. When Grantaire then told him that at least he wanted to accompany him home like a thank for this beautiful day, he didn't fight back. He enjoyed how cheerfully Grantaire talked all the way, holding his hand tightly until his whole palm sweated. He wanted to end the day with a sweet finish. And now… “Then I'll probably go.”

“Sure.” Enjolras swallowed desperate  _ Don’t go _ and just nodded. He sighed as the elevator rang and Grantaire boarded it. He lowered his head in displeasure and cursed softly. He opened the door again and pushed into it. He immediately smelled the unpleasant smell that carried throughout the apartment.

“Enjolras!” The blond jerked and turned toward the elevator from which Grantaire had run. “Your jacket!” He shouted with a laugh and ran to get the jacket back. “I'd keep it, but it doesn't even smell like you anymore, so — What's that stink here?” He asked in surprise, looking in the direction from which the scent flowed. Enjolras' apartment. He blinked and immediately shouted in fright, “That’s gas!”

“No, that — Grantaire!” But it was too late. Before he could grab his shirt, Grantaire slipped past him and ran into his apartment. “Grantaire!” Enjolras shouted irritably, took off his shoes, kicked them at the shoebox, and quickly ran to the brunette. He stood with his back to Enjolras in the middle of the kitchen, his hands resting on a chair beside the dining table. “Grantai—” He didn't finish when the brunette turned, jumped around his neck, and began kissing him hungrily again. Enjolras couldn’t breath. When he finally pulled Grantaire away from him, the brunette grabbed him by the cheeks and placed his forehead on his.

“Is that for me?” He asked with a smirk.

“...No,” Enjolras replied, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to look into his eyes. “I know another Grantaire.”

“Sure,” the brunette laughed, kissing him again, this time gently, and pulling away from him. Immediately, he returned to the dining table and, with a wide smile, inspected a bowl containing several burnt cookies. One letter was written in green cream on all of them. Together, the biscuits in a row meant  _ Happy B-day R _ , and one cookie had the cutest little heart Grantaira had ever seen. He couldn't stop smiling, his face ached. “How did you even think of that?”

Enjolras scratched his hair and admitted defeated, “I heard Jehan say that he baked muffins for his friend with a message on them. It came to me -  _ that sounds kinda cool _ . But… But now I know it was stupid. I never cooked, let alone baked. I found a recipe on the internet, but it seemed so simple there. Last night I bought all the ingredients and ... I don't even know what went wrong. Suddenly everything started to stick, burn, stink strangely, a neighbor across the street came to complain to me that I was making noise and trying to irritate everyone out of the apartments by the horrible smell…”

Grantaire laughed at his story. He immediately reached out and motioned for him to go to him. Enjolras accepted his hand and let Grantaire hug him again. “It's wonderful, Apollo—” The blond was inhaling to protest, but the brunette put a finger to his lips and said, “—and I'm eating them all!”

“You don't have to,” Enjolras said seriously. “They're really disgusting.”

“It’s from you! You can’t make anything that’s  _ disgusting _ .”

“Grantaire.”

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras just sighed. “In that case, I'll make you lemon balm tea.”

“Wouldn't tea or hot chocolate be better?”

“Maybe. But this is herbal tea for nausea. You will need it.”


	11. Desperate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is. For the first time, I’m adding a czech original before an english translation. Unfortunately, I didn't get to write until late at night, and my thoughts and fingers went so fast that the originally short idea became probably one of the longest stories of the whole month (I hope there won't be more long ones, my hand is starting to ache again :D ). So I hope that this time you will forgive me for a slight delay in the English translation (have you ever tried to write a fanfiction and translate it at the same day and have only like three hours to do so? I applaud you!). And hope you will enjoy this story. :)

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire first saw Enjolras two years ago. He shoved into him in the doorway of the Café Musain and poured a hot latte on his jacket. He wanted to apologize to him, but as he looked into his beautiful blue eyes, all the words stuck in his throat. He wasn't able to speak again until the waitress approached them to ask what had happened. Enjolras ordered a new latte straight away, asked for a few handkerchiefs, and when Grantaire offered to clean his jacket, he refused. As soon as the waitress brought him new coffee, he apologized for having to clean up after him, as if it were his fault, and left.

Grantaire then dreamed about the young man that night. He saw his restless, blond hair; glowing, blue eyes; luxury clothes, beautiful attitude, tall figure. He stood in front of him and said nothing. He awoke in the morning with an insurmountable desire to meet this man again. He then went to the Café Musain daily in the hope that he would be lucky to see him again. It took him four days to see him between the doors again. Waitress had just brought the selected wine for Grantaire when he entered the café, which immediately lit up the room. Was it his hair to blame? His charisma? Or maybe the smile that gave the feeling of warmth? Grantaire had no idea, but he didn't begin to notice the time around him until the blond man walked behind the door at the back of the cafe.

So Grantaire went to the coffee shop every Thursday, at four in the afternoon, sitting at an empty table in the corner as far away from the window as he could, as the most beautiful man he had ever seen entered the coffee shop in half an hour. Sometimes he came alone , sometimes with a tall brown-haired man with glasses on his nose, sometimes with a small man laughing out loud. Grantaire always finished his glass of wine, paid, and left.

Three months and five paintings, in which he certainly didn’t portray the blonde man as an angel; later, he decided to finally speak to him. He was sitting at the bar, holding a pencil in his hand, drawing the last details on the paper in front of him. Enjolras arrived on time as always, holding several books in his arms, and when Grantaire stopped him to talk to him, he just raised an eyebrow. “For you,” he said as he placed the paper on the books. It was a portrait of Enjolras, as he imagined he looked as he sat at a table with a selected book. Enjolras just looked at the drawing, blinked, and looked back at Grantaire. He looked at him for a moment, then frowned and asked, “Aren't you the one who poured coffee on me a few months ago?”

Grantaire just nodded. “I apologize again. In truth, I wanted to—”

“I'm sorry, I don't have much time right now, I'm late already. But if you don't mind waiting, do you want to talk after the meeting?”

Grantaire suspected he should ask what the  _ meeting  _ was, but instead he just smiled broadly and said, “Sure.” So he followed Enjolras to the back of the Café Musain and met  _ Les Ámis _ , who became his friends the exact night.

_ — And he didn't resist it. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire's love for Enjolras soon became a public secret. Everyone knew why he had joined the  _ Les Ámis _ that day, but none of them had tried to interfere. Perhaps Grantaire had never considered what he would change about human rights, how he would regulate waste, or how he would behave if the government was overthrown; but he knew what it was like to have educated and kind men around him. Grantaire never kept friends. Over time, everyone became irritated by his way of humor, his annoying singing, or perhaps too much affection for alcohol and cigarettes. But these men accepted him with open arms, smiles on their lips, and even harsher jokes than his own.

Except Enjolras. He soon realized that this ethereal being was as cold as the harsh winter that had always narrowed France at the turn of the year. Winning his heart was the hardest thing he'd tried in years. Nothing softened him. The farther Enjolras kept his distance from him, the closer he was to the other men. In a few months, Joly and Bossuet began to claim to be his best friends; he played chess with Combeferre and Feuilly, enrolled in boxing classes with Bahorel, wrote poems with Jehan, and occasionally went to the bar with Courfeyrac to bet on who would win the heart of the chosen girl or boy first.

But he had nothing to do with Enjolras except those few moments in Musain. Their views were so different that they couldn’t even debate about them. They always fighted about the smallest thing. Combeferre and Joly always had to reassure them. The closer Grantaire tried to get to him, the farther Enjolras seemed to him. “Give him time,” Feuilly advised. “He just needs to get used to you,” Combeferre added.

But Grantaire didn't want to wait. He wanted to hug him, laugh with him and tell him jokes, just like with everyone else. Every time he saw Combeferre whispering something to him and then laughed heartily, he was jealous. He wanted to be part of his world.

But everything changed in the spring, exactly a year after they first met. Grantaire returned to school, moved to a new apartment, found a job to afford both, and his mother called to say that his younger sister had fallen ill and had no money for her medication. He tried, worked, didn't sleep, and drank so many energy drinks that he began to pee in orange colour. It had only been a week since he could count on his hands how many minutes he had actually slept when a glass of lemon water, hot tea, and his favorite banana cake appeared on his desk. Enjolras stood there as he looked up from the table and looked ahead. He looked the same stone expression as always. He sat down in front of him, folded his arms on the table, and asked, “What's going on?” Grantaire didn't understand. And so Enjolras began to talk about how little he concentrated during the meetings; about how little he argued; about how little he joked; about how he began to distance himself from all his friends; about how that thoughtful, hurt look on his face seemed weird to him. “It scares me,” Enjolras admitted when he had finished, and Grantaire looked at him with his mouth open. “So will you tell me what's going on?”

And Grantaire was definitely not going to hide anything. He confided in all the problems that bothered him and felt as if he had finally stopped being dragged to the ground. As if all the boulders lying on Grantaire's shoulders were suddenly taken down by Enjolras. They talked for long hours, ordered a few cups of tea, and each ate three pieces of different cakes until their teeth ached.

They left a few minutes before the cafe closed. “Is it better now?” Enjolras asked, hiding his hands in his pockets. It was spring, but it was still quite cold in the evening.

“Yes,” Grantaire replied with a smile. Enjolras just nodded and wanted to leave when Grantaire stopped him with a loud voice, “Wait!” And before he could stop, he leaned over the blond and kissed him. He just rubbed his lips against his lightly. His lips were sweet, and still a little sticky from the chocolate icing. “Thank you,” he whispered, turning and walking away quickly.

When he got home, he could still feel his heart pounding and his chest all red with nervousness. He sat down on the couch and turned on the television. An hour later, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. As he read the message that came to him, his heart pounded again and he began to smile broadly. _ “I hope I could help you a little today. If you need anything, call me. - Enjolras.” _

He never deleted this message from his cell phone.

_ — And he felt what he had never felt before. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire found the key to Enjolras' world, but he still had to unlock and slowly open it to see paradise behind the door, not the hell that was trying to devour him. Grantaire tried not to argue with Enjolras, and although it was difficult and his voice raised at times, he noticed that Enjolras was also taming and clenching his teeth so as not to hurt the other. He was interested in what Enjolras did in his spare time, and it didn't surprise him that he devoted almost all of his free time to charity. But he smiled the most when he talked about the dog shelter, which he went to help once a week. Grantaire offered to go there with him, and every time he saw Enjolras smiling when the dogs started jumping on him happily, he smiled too. He found that he didn't like sweets much, but he had a weakness for shortbread, linzer pastry. Therefore, when he felt that it was too much for him and purple circles of drowsiness began to form under his eyes, he always ordered one dessert and Enjolras gave him one of his rare, bright smiles.

But it wasn't just Grantaire who tried. Even Enjolras, unable to say and express how he felt about whom, tried to show how important Grantaire was to him. For example, when he ordered wine for him before he arrived at the meeting. For example, by paying for all his debts at the Café Musain and the Pub Corinth, so that he would no longer have problems with the owners. For example, by buying him a lamp with a soft blue light, which supposedly helped him to concentrate. For example, by buying Grantaire a thick book of  _ Art History _ and Grantaire crying when he saw that this was the first edition. For example, by appearing, as the only one, at one of his school exhibitions without telling him about it, and he walked among the paintings by himself until he stood in front of the Grantaires and Grantaire for a good twenty minutes wasn’t able to reach him and talk to him thank to his fear and nervousness.

Grantaire showed his affection publicly, Enjolras secretly. And it worked. Grantaire enjoyed that he was finally important to Enjolras. He knew it wasn't healthy how much he thought about him and thought about how to impress him; but he couldn’t prevent it. Enjolras was the reason he was happy and wanted to give it back to him. Even though he was sure he didn't like him as much as his brunette, the gestures he gave him were more valuable to him than thousands of kisses.

Until he found out how his kisses tasted.

It was four months later when summer began. The days lengthened, they were hot and the sun burned more. Joly and Combeferre had just finished their medical practice and were tired of having to sit in the halls for several hours a day and watch the operations. The boys decided to lift their spirits, so after one meeting at the Café Musain, they fell into a bar on the street corner, where they spent the whole evening. They drank colorful cocktails, danced, enjoyed loud music, and laughed. The atmosphere completely engulfed them.

Sometime around two in the morning, Enjolras got up from the table, needing to breathe fresh air. Before leaving the table, he touched Grantaire's shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Come with me.” The brunette watched him disappear behind the front door and take a deep breath. He didn't want to hope for anything. He didn't even want to imagine what Enjolras might want from him. He finished his cocktail quickly, apologized, and left in the same direction as his friend.

He shivered when he walked out the door. It was almost as hot outside as inside the bar. Enjolras sat on the sidewalk stroking the cat that was snuggling up to his side. When the brunette came to him, the cat hunched over and ran away. “I guess I stink,” he laughed as he sat down next to Enjolras.

“You smell wonderful,” the blond countered, and Grantaire just rolled his eyes at him. He swallowed hard, trying not to feel the heat on his face. It was clear to him that he was blushing. At least he could have lied that the dancing was to blame. “Do you know that it is said that you will recognize your chosen partner by smell?”

“Seriously?”

Enjolras just nodded. “They say you will like his smell. Especially his sweat. Combeferre explained it to me, it was said that hormones were to blame. Somehow nature arranged for you to choose a partner with the best genetic information for future generations.”

“I see.”

“You don't know what I mean?”

“Not much,” Grantaire admitted.

Enjolras wasn't waiting. He grabbed Grantaire by the collar of his shirt and pulled him close. His kiss was hard, inexperienced, rude. He pulled away from him so he could lick his lips and kissed him again. The roughness was now replaced by wetness, which forced Grantaire to moan faintly. Instinctively, he grabbed Enjolras by the cheeks with his hands, massaged his fingers with his fingers, and returned the kisses. As their tongues rubbed against each other, they both groaned and Enjolras pulled away from the brunette. They could only kiss for a few moments, but they were both breathing as if they had been doing it for hours. “I just wanted to tell you that  _ I like  _ how you smell, Grantaire.”

Grantaire then sat outside for another half hour until he decided it was time to go home.

_ — And he was confused. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire couldn't forget the kiss. He thought of it before bed, when he got up in the morning, at school, on the way home, at work, in meetings.  _ Especially  _ at meetings. When he saw Enjolras, he focused his eyes on his lips and remembered how they tasted, how soft, wide, wet they were. He wanted to kiss him again to make sure he hadn't just imagined the taste, and it wasn't just one of his other dreams. But Enjolras smiled every time he saw the brunette looking at him. Only lightly, for a few moments that escaped everyone. But not Grantaire. He saw them very clearly. He was sure Enjolras had thought of that, too.

Each time either of them decided to go to the bar for a few glasses of wine or harder alcohol, they both agreed to go as well. And whenever everyone was drunk enough not to notice what the others were doing; they disappeared for a few moments in front of the bar so they could kiss.

At first, their kisses were gentle and exploratory. But after a few nights, their kisses deepened, became more passionate, and were joined by hands, which began to examine the other's body. Grantaire may have been more experienced, but Enjolras was more curious. His hands constantly examined Grantaire's arms, abdomen, and hips. They stroked him, squeezed him. He tried to get even closer to him, even though their noses were already pressed together so that neither could breathe.

Two months later, after several kissed nights _ , Les Ámis _ took part in a public demonstration for the first time. Enjolras spoke on the podium about tax regulation, poor social classification and also the inability of the government. Grantaire looked at him from the front row and admired how the sun created a radiant halo over his blond hair, which added even more importance to his expression. His voice was masculine and strong, his attitude proud. If Enjolras decided to shout on the spot -  _ Overthrow the government!  _ \- He would do it. For him. And he believed a lot of people around him too.

But like most demonstrations, this one turned bad too. One remark in the crowd was enough to stir up the debate, and it began to boil among the people. Enjolras tried to calm them down, but only a moment was enough, and the police, who had been standing around them for a few more minutes to control the situation, decided to go against them. Grantaire had no idea what had happened. It happened so fast. There were screams, curses, people pushing each other, and a white cloud emerged from somewhere, smelling strongly and scratching his eyes. “This way!” Enjolras shouted as he grabbed his arm and began to pull him through the crowd. “Keep your head down!” He placed a damp handkerchief on his mouth and covered his head with his sweatshirt. He looked at the ground, saw only the toes of their shoes, and let himself toss from side to side. At one point, Enjolras released him, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and pressed him to his chest. Grantaire closed his eyes and listened to his heart. It was pounding furiously. Grantaire had no idea if it was excitement or fear.

Grantaire didn't open his eyes until he felt the cold wall against his back, and Enjolras put his hands on his cheeks, and asked, “Can you open your eyes?” Grantaire saw a little blur, tears burning in his eyes, and he still needed to blink. But he could recognize Enjolras's face. He frowned, his mouth slightly ajar, but his eyes looked worried. They lost all the lights. Grantaire reached for his face so he could rub his eyes, but Enjolras stopped him, “Don't do it. It will be even worse. Aren't you feeling sick?” Grantaire shook his head. “Can you walk?” Grantaire nodded. “Good. Close your eyes, I'll lead you. You don't have to be afraid.” With that, he grabbed his hand and began to lead him through the quiet alleys.

When Grantaire opened his eyes again, he was sitting on the edge of Enjolras' bathtub in the bathroom. He dipped a piece of cloth into the hot water, which began to wash Grantaire's entire face. He said nothing, just touched him gently and occasionally stroked his hair. Grantaire enjoyed his care. When he could finally open his eyes without tears, he looked into Enjolras's eyes and smiled at him. Enjolras didn’t return the smile and began to fill the tub instead. “Wash yourself. I put my clothes on the washing machine, you can wear them.”

“Wait,” the brunette stopped him, grabbed his wrist and stood up. “What's going on?” He asked cautiously, noticing his expression. He was as caring as before, but this time there was something strange about them - sadness. And that terrified Grantaire. He had never seen Enjolras like this before.

The blond said nothing. Reaching out to turn off the running water, he grabbed Grantaire by the cheeks and kissed him. It was a gentle, light kiss. Without alcohol, his lips tasted fresh and lightly like mint paste. But Grantaire recognized that there was more to him than ever before. There was a desire in him. And it widened their pupils and quickened their breath.

Neither of them said anything. They moved from the bathroom to Enjolras's bedroom, fell into his duvets, and as they pulled away, Grantaire smiled at him again and Enjolras nodded. Everything then happened quickly. They tore their clothes off, touched everywhere, kissed everywhere, rubbed everywhere. Grantaire moaned loudly, saying Enjolras's name over and over again, hoping the blond would say something. But he was silent. Occasionally a low moan came out of his mouth, sounding as if someone was suffocating him. When their bodies merged, Grantaire pressed Enjolras against him as hard as he could and whispered in his ear over and over, “It's not your fault, it's not your fault, it's not your fault.”; because Grantaire finally understood what the look in his eyes meant.  _ Remorse _ .

When they both reached the top, Enjolras went to the bathroom, returned to the bedroom with a wet towel, and washed them both. When Grantaire tried to kiss him again, Enjolras shook his head, pressed against his shoulders, and said quietly, “You should sleep.” He walked away. Grantaire didn’t want to be alone. Not after what happened between them. But he respected his wishes. He lay down on the duvets, which were soaked with their scent and sweat. He closed his eyes, and even though he knew that what had happened between them was certainly not an act of love, he felt happy. He began to smile and fell asleep in a moment.

_ — And he finally felt whole _ .

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire woke up at six in the morning, stretched, and looked around the room. He was still there alone. From the coldness of the other half of the bed, he realized that Enjolras hadn’t joined him. He got out of bed, put on his old, dirty clothes, and left the room. He wondered if he should go home, but it seemed right to at least say goodbye to Enjolras. He entered the living room, where the balcony door was open. Grantaire walked over to the door, leaned against its wooden frame, and looked at Enjolras, who was sitting in a small chair sipping hot coffee from a cup. He stared at the rising sun, thinking. “Hello,” he greeted him uncertainty.

Enjolras looked at him, blinked, and motioned for him to sit next to him. As soon as Grantaire sitted down, Enjolras began, “I guess I should explain to you what happened yesterday.”

“Enjolras, I've already said you’re not—”

“I'm not talking about the demonstration. I'm talking about sleeping together.”

Grantaire fidgeted. “Oh, that…” He swallowed. He had no idea what more he should say. Thank him? Apologize?

“Grantaire, what has happened between us in recent months… It meant a lot to me. I have known for a long time that I am not a man who will ever be able to have a meaningful relationship. And for one reason only. I can't fall in love.” 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You like Combeferre and Feuilly, and all of them, and I hope your even like me, but—”

“That's something else, Grantaire. I love you as my friends. You are important to me. But I can feel nothing more than friendship. I can't fall in love, have a relationship and long for children, for example, or for sharing something with someone that is beyond human understanding. I know what love is. But I can't make myself feel it. I don't consider what I feel the most to be love.” 

“Okay,” Grantaire said, though he still didn't understand what Enjolras was trying to tell him. “And?” 

“It doesn't mean I don't feel desire. Physical.” Enjolras sighed. “My body works whether I feel for someone or not. I can't fall in love, but someone can strongly attract me. You attract me.” Grantaire felt himself blush. “You're exactly my type,” he admitted, and the brunette felt like fainting in a moment. “I like you. That's why I did what I did. I needed to feel you. At least for a while. I hate alcohol, but for those moments with you, I was able to accept it. I tried to tame it, not to go beyond kisses. It already seemed unfair to you. Like I'm using you. And yesterday… I used the situation to feel better. I'd like to apologize for that, Grantaire.”

“Don’t apologize. I wanted it too. You did nothing wrong.”

“Do you love me?” Grantaire widened his eyes at the blond. “I heard the boys talking about it when they thought I couldn't hear them and…” He didn't finish. He waited for what he would tell him.

“Um, well, would that change anything?”

“I can’t hurt you and use your love to make me feel good.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment before understanding. “Wait, you're offering me that we can sleep together, but without emotion in it?”

“I liked it, you're handy,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire had to look away to keep from smiling broadly. “And it's easier for me than looking for a boy for one night.”

“Are you doing that?”

“Sometimes.”

Enjolras's sincerity almost terrified Grantaire. “So…”

"I would like to know if we can repeat what happened between us yesterday. Without feelings, discreetly, like friends who help each other. You will help me to relax and think about my work. Without the unnecessary thoughts that are holding me back and the fluctuations in hormones that sometimes makes me act like an uncontrolled adolescent boy.” Grantaire imagined quite clearly what he meant. “But only if it will be beneficial for you as well. Otherwise, we can end anything between us until now.”

“No,” Grantaire said too quickly. But the thought of losing his closeness, a few moments of their kisses together, terrified him. “Well, it would help me, too. I didn’t fuck it while.” He had a few opportunities, but all the boys who were willing to go with him weren’t kind, intelligent, blond,  _ Enjolras _ . “So if you don't mind!”

“Of course. I suggest it to you myself.”

“So we're friends with benefits now?”

“Friends with benefits?” Enjolras asked, frowning. “Is that what it's called?”

“Sure, you don't know?” He reached out to Enjolras, picked up his coffee mug, and drank. The coffee was too strong and bitter for him. “I still have a lot to teach you,” he said affectionately, and began to talk to him about everything that had just occurred to him.

Everything seemed great. Their new agreement didn’t in any way disrupt anything between them until then. They kept arguing in meetings, but their quarrels were calmer and more moderate. Enjolras no longer went to bars with them, and he hadn't touched alcohol since they made love. After some time, Combeferre told Grantaire that Enjolras didn’t really tolerate alcohol. His father was a strong alcoholic, and every time he touched a glass, he remembered how his father beat him as a child. Since then, Grantaire had been careful for Enjolras never to smell the wine he loved so much from his breath, and started to drink only rarely. Together with friends, they planned demonstrations, went to parks and came up with new slogans.

The only thing that changed was their telephone communication. Anyone looking at their thread would wonder what it meant, “Today?” And the answer, “Yes.” But all that was enough for them to meet and fulfill their unwritten agreement. Enjolras was always the one who wrote the day, and Grantaire who agreed. Who always agreed.

But could he refuse? Enjolras was like a forbidden fruit that tasted better and better with each bite. Enjolras never talked about his partners, so everyone thought how  _ innocent  _ he was. Grantaire would have lied if he hadn't admitted that he was excited to find out how wrong everyone, including him, was wrong. Enjolras was great in bed - without exaggeration. He knew where to touch Grantaire to make him tremble beneath him. He knew where to kiss him so that a deep moan could come out of his mouth. He knew how deep to thrust inside Grantaire to make him see the stars before his eyes.

But Grantaire also learned a few things. Maybe how Enjolras loved when he kissed him on the neck and sometimes bit him. Maybe how Enjolras loved when Grantaire scratched his back until scars remained. Maybe how Enjolras loved when Grantaire began to squeeze his hips and command loudly, “More, more, more.”

Enjolras was as quiet in bed as he normally was. But he was animalistic, dominant, relaxed and most importantly -  _ himself _ . He didn't hide anything, he didn't think of anything.

And Grantaire was proud to be the only one who could see Enjolras like that.

_ — And he was happy. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

But Grantaire should have known that this fairytale wouldn’t last long.

After three months of making love every other day, always with Enjolras in the apartment, in his bedroom, on his bed; Enjolras' parents come to visit him in Paris. He told friends after a meeting when they asked why he didn't want to arrive the next day. Bahorel was making fun of him for making a date with someone, and Grantaire's heart stopped at that moment. He moved closer to Enjolras, as if afraid of suddenly losing him, but the blond just said, “No, my parents are coming.” But even then, Grantaire didn't feel better. He knew that Enjolras didn’t have the best relationship with his father. How could he? After beating him for years and telling him as an adult that he would never achieve anything? His mother was a quiet woman who was afraid of her husband, and Enjolras said that the only reason he wanted to see them every few weeks was to make sure his mother was okay. Despite his strength, Enjolras was still afraid of his father.

It was the first time Grantaire had asked, “Today?” And Enjolras answered, “No.” It was their first  _ no _ . It squeezed Grantaire's heart strangely, and after several months of trying to almost avoid alcohol, he got drunk.

He was terrified when the alcohol ran out of his body and opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his apartment. He didn't recognize the ceiling, the smell around him was different and so strong that it lifted his stomach. He sat up quickly and his head began to ache. Grantaire grunted, closed his eyes again, and tried to exhale the feeling of nausea. “Are you conscious yet?” He turned behind. Enjolras. He sat on the edge of the bed and frowned. Grantaire knew he had done something. But he couldn't remember what. And so Enjolras began to tell the story - Grantaire appeared in front of his apartment in the morning, pounding on the door, yelling at the whole corridor. When sleepy Enjolras opened the door for him and tried to calm him down, his mother appeared in the doorway. Grantaire jumped around the confused woman's shoulders and began to address her as his _mother-in-law_ , praising how well she had raised her son. Grantaire's drunken voice woke Enjolras's father as well, who came into the hall with an angry and noisy expression, “Can anyone explain to me what the fuck is going on?” And Grantaire looked at his dad, widened his eyes and said with a loud voice: “I can finally see why Enjolras is so gorgeous. Can you undress, so I can see that you have such an amazing cock too?” Enjolras closed Grantaire into his bedroom and tried to talk to his parents, who began hectically packing their belongings while swearing of all kinds spread through his apartment.

“I didn’t tell them. That I'm gay.” Grantaire felt as if someone had poured cold water over him. “And I never wanted to tell them. I hoped that after they stopped pushing to find a wife and have children, my personal and sexual lives wouldn’t matter to them anymore. And they didn’t care for a long time. Until now. Thank you.” He spoke the last sentence so venomously that Grantaire's stomach heaved and he vomited on Enjolras' entire bed.

After this experience, Enjolras didn’t respond so often. Their time together was quieter and shorter. After sex, Enjolras always let the brunette sleep in his bed and fell asleep on the couch himself to give him some privacy. Now he begged him to always leave. Grantaire was worried, so when he wanted to say goodbye to him, he started arguing with him. When Enjolras was arguing, he didn't think about time. Grantaire always mesmerized the clock in the hallway, hoping to miss the last metro to home. Enjolras always sent him to his bedroom, didn’t say goodnight to him, and woke him up in the morning before dawn. “I have to get ready for school,” he told him as he led him out the door and locked behind him.

Everything was strange, and Grantaire knew it wouldn't last long. A month after the incident with his parents, Grantaire asked if they could end their agreement. “Do you have anyone?” The blond asked, emotionless, without a single change in the tone of his voice.

“Yes,” he lied.

“Good. I hope you are happy with the girl or boy,” he said very sincerely and returned to his work. Grantaire didn't really know what to expect. That he would beg him? That he would force him to stay? That he would demand an explanation? That wasn't Enjolras’ way. Enjolras was simple in relationships, he only worked on the system -  _ yes  _ and  _ no _ . And he should have gotten used to it.

Grantaire loved people, loved girls, loved men. He loved romance and loved love. He admired them, and yet he couldn't keep anyone. He lured everyone apart before they were able to fall in love with him as strongly as he did. Love always quickly became jealousy and he began to suffocate everyone.

And that forced him to hug the bottle again and drink it all.

_ — And in the end he was unhappy about it. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

But maybe he should have known he would be the first to beg to come back. It was hard to see Enjolras at the meetings and to know that he would kiss him with the same mouth that day, touch him with those hands, dig into his lower abdomen with those hips. But it was worse to know he wouldn't do it again. Or worse - that he will do it with someone else. Each time he imagined that Enjolras had decided to go home with a new boy that evening, he had to have another glass of wine. “Someone find his love for wine again,” Bahorel laughed as he opened his third bottle of wine, his cheeks red. Grantaire just shrugged and poured himself to the brim. “You're acting like a woman who broke up with her husband.” And he had to drink a glass right away.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asked him a month after their agreement ended.

Grantaire just grinned. “Why do you care?”

“I didn’t see your paintings at the exhibition of student works. You were always one of the first choices for professors. When I talked to one of them, they told me that you hadn’t been to school for three weeks and hadn’t brought a finished picture since the beginning of the year.”

“Why are you interested?” Grantaire asked venomously. “It's none of your business.”

“It is,” the younger protested. “You are my friend.”

“Friend?” Grantaire laughed and stood up. He staggered. Alcohol had a much stronger effect on him. He was no longer used to him. In addition, he lost weight, and that was always enough for him a few gulps before he felt his head spin. “So this is how you’re calling the boys you're fucking with?”

“That's what I call those who are my friends.”

“Sure.” He tried to walk around the table, but his legs were tangled. He began to fall to the ground, but the hard blow from the floor didn’t come. Instead, he felt only the soft warmth he knew so well. He immediately squeezed closer to him and buried his nose in a scent he hadn't felt in so long. “Enjolras…” His voice sounded hurt, confused, weak.

“Come with me,” the blond said as he helped him to his feet.

He supported him all the way to his apartment, stroking his back when he felt sick and vomited on the street. When they reached Enjolras's apartment, he laid him on the bed, took off all his clothes, put on something of his own, and forced him to drink a whole glass of water. Granntaire fell asleep as Enjolras leaned to his forehead to kiss him.

He woke up in the afternoon. All he felt was a headache. He couldn't even walk properly, he didn't want to eat or drink. Enjolras left him lying still in his bed until the evening when the brunette decided to leave the bedroom. Enjolras sat on the sofa, watching the news and typing something into the laptop he had on his lap. “Are you feeling better?” He asked. Grantaire just nodded and immediately regretted it. The pain was already weaker, but still quite sharp and annoying. “I made soup. Would you like some? It's made of beef. It is said fat food helps with hangovers.”

“Please,” Grantaire said in a low voice, and Enjolras prepared the soup for him. As he ate, he looked out of the corner of his eye at Enjolras, who was still working. Seeing his beautiful features, his relaxed face, and the smell of it all around him, made his stomach tightened. No one has ever treated him like that. Nobody cared how it was. Everyone didn't care what happened to the  _ drunkard _ .

He didn't even realize he was crying until Enjolras hugged him and began stroking his hair. “Don't cry,” he pleaded in a soft voice he didn't recognize. “I can't stand it when someone I care about cries.” It made him cry even more.

And so, that night, they renewed their agreement.

And then, three weeks later, they canceled it again.

So that they can restore it again after five days.

It was a carousel Grantaire didn't know how to get out of. All those bad moments - quarrels in the Café Musain; fighting in the hallway in Enjolras’ apartment, before Grantaire was about to leave; remorse from Enjolras, who he hated when Grantaire began to accuse him of something he couldn’t do; Enjolras's things that Grantaire smashed at his house whenever he felt at the ends; they were balanced by the beautiful ones - the way Enjolras bought Grantaire his favorite ice cream every time he was fired from another work; the way Enjolras took care of Grantaire every time he overdid it with alcohol; the way Enjolras stroked his hair and held him tightly in his arms as he fell into depression; as they danced naked in each other's arms to classical, calm music when they made love, but they still didn't feel tired after it.

Grantaire didn't even know what he wanted anymore. To be with him or to forget him?

_ — And he began to long for what was called a “relationship”. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire knew he would make a fatal mistake. Something he won't be able to take back.

And it happened a few days before Christmas. Enjolras took Grantaira to a luxury restaurant whose name he couldn’t even pronounce. “Why?” The brunette asked in surprise.

Enjolras just shrugged. “I wanted to make you happy,” he said as he opened the door for him to enter.

The whole evening was wonderful. They ate selected food, a live band played for dinner, occasionally touching each other's hands and stroking it gently. Grantaire watched Enjolras all evening. He didn't miss a single smile. He saw the flames in his eyes that attracted him so much. He felt him touch him with the toe and stroked his calf gently. As they left the restaurant, it began to snow. Enjolras took off his cap and gave it to Grantaire. He pressed against him and examined his hands. “Don't you have gloves?” He asked as he saw his fingers getting red. Before Grantaire could react, Enjolras put one of his gloves on and grabbed the other in his own palm and intertwined their fingers. “Is it that good?” He asked, and Grantaire could only nod.

When they entered Enjolras's apartment, they began kissing in the hallway. They took off their clothes slowly, as if trying to seduce the other. All the kisses were gentle, the touches light. As Enjolras began dangerously approaching the hem of Grantaire's trousers, the brunette stopped him. “You don't have to,” he said uncertainly, realizing what the younger of them was trying to do. He never did it for Enjolras. He touched him a few times, but Enjolras preferred it when Grantaire touched him with his hands and mouth over his chest and neck.

“I want to,” Enjolras said in an excited voice, smiled, unzipped the fly, and whispered, “Enjoy it.” With that, he took all of him in his mouth and began massaging his hips with hands.

Grantaire moaned loudly. He clenched his fingers on the sheet, just so they wouldn't accidentally dig into Enjolras's thick hair. He couldn't even look at what he was doing. He couldn't. He was scared. He didn't know what he did to deserve it. Not just this moment, but all that. To  _ have  _ Enjolras.

Grantaire began to approach the top, patting Enjolras on the shoulder to warn him, but the blond didn't stop. His tongue did something magical, and Grantaire, out of breath, without thinking, shouted, “I love you!” He arched like a bow and came into Enjolras's mouth.

When the mist before his eyes finally melted and he opened his eyes again, Enjolras leaned over him and put on a condom. He opened his mouth to say something, but Enjolras put a finger to his lips. He shook his head and thrusted into him without warning. Grantaire hugged Enjolras, pressed him to his bare chest, scratched his back and hair with his hands, and kept whispering over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

_ — And he couldn't hide it anymore. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire knew there was something different as soon as he woke up. When he opened his eyes, he had breakfast beside the bed and folded clothes on his desk. Before the glass with juice was a simple message:  _ I went to buy milk. I will be back in a moment. We need to talk. Don't run away. - Enjolras _ . Grantaire swallowed and sighed. It was clear to him what they would be talking about.

He ate, got dressed, and walked into the living room, where he looked out the window at the Eiffel Tower. It never seemed exceptional to him. But from this angle, under the rays of sunlight and surrounded by the scent of Enjolras, it looked almost magical. As his foot began to knock eagerly and he was thinking of running away from the apartment, the main door opened.

In a moment, Enjolras appeared in the living room with milk and a newspaper in his hand. “Good morning,” he greeted him and went to the kitchen to put the milk in the fridge. “I'll make coffee. Do you want t—”

“Don't prolong it, Enjolras,” Grantaire said impatiently as he turned to him.

“Okay,” said the younger, closing the refrigerator, holding the back of the chair at the dining table, and saying, “I don't love you.” Grantaire was ready. But still the words hurt. He felt as if he had thrown a few daggers into his heart. “I told you from the beginning that I was not capable of such a thing.”

“Has nothing changed?” He asked. Enjolras sighed. Grantaire knew very well what the answer was -  _ No _ . That's what Enjolras did best. Reject him. But why did he feel so betrayed? Enjolras never promised him anything. He was honest with him from the beginning. He knew what he was getting into. So why did it hurt so much? “Don’t say anything. I know where the door is.” And with that, he left.

As he entered the elevator, which was supposed to take him downstairs, in the reflection of the mirror that was on one wall of the elevator, he noticed that his face was wet with tears. He sighed. He wiped away his tears, but at that moment they started rolling down his face even more.

Their agreement is over. There was no going back.

_ — And Enjolras didn’t love him. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Grantaire knew only one thing. If he wanted to be  _ only friend  _ for Enjolras, he needed to stay away from him for some time. He stopped going to a meeting  _ Les Ámis _ and returned to his favorite bar, where he flirted with the boy with sweet words and vows about a magical night.

He was doing well. Every night at the bar, he talked about art with art students, seducing young, innocent boys thanks to his paintings, as well as danced with the elderly men who wore a wedding ring, and kissed in the toilets with those with their necks tattooed.

But something was wrong. All their words, touches and kisses were empty. They brought him nothing. Not even the fraction of the pleasure he felt in his crotch when he was touched by a stranger lasted long. “Are you into girls or what?” A blond mannequin asked him — Grantaire trying to tell himself he hadn’t flirted with him because he reminded him of Enjolras — when he opened the fly of his jeans and saw that Grantaire hadn't responded  _ at all _ . He just grinned, pulled on his pants, found his T-shirt somewhere on the ground, and left the apartment. He didn't notice the boy shouting at him, and when he went out into the cold of the winter night, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He hasn't smoked in almost a year. Exactly as long as they kept their agreement with Enjolras. But more things ended with it.

When Grantaire got home that evening, he turned on the television and found a program with political debate. They played non-stop at Enjolras. He turned on his laptop, placed it on a small table in front of the sofa, typed the name of the porn site into a search engine, and found his favorite one. A young, likeable man with golden skin and long, blond hair. He found him just before he and Enjolras  _ broke up  _ \- he knew it wasn't a breakup in the true sense of the word, but he had no idea how else to name the pain he felt in his chest every time he just remembered it. He probably knew something was going to go wrong soon. He turned on one of his newer videos, and as he listened to the new rental measures from the television, obscene, wet sounds and moans emanated from his laptop, which were certainly recorded.

That night, Grantaire went to sleep tired only physically. He was still in his thoughts with his favorite blonde.

When it was almost two months since he didn’t show up at the café Musain, he didn’t associate with his friends and wrote a single message with Enjolras; spring began. In a moment, all the snow had melted and the temperature had risen by twelve degrees. Grantaire felt ready to finally return to his life. He arranged with Joly to meet at a bakery where they made the best blueberry muffins. Joly asked him how he came to such a bakery, but he preferred to remain silent. He didn't want to admit that he knew it because of Enjolras, who loved the taste of this kind of muffin.  _ They're not unnecessarily sweet _ , he said. Grantaire shook his head. He didn't want to think about him unnecessarily. Even though he wasn't crying with him at every memory, and his chest wasn't in pain, he still felt uncomfortable.

He put on his favorite blue shirt, black jeans, and went off. When he was on the corner of the street where the bakery was, he stopped. In warm weather, the bakery had several tables and chairs in front of the door so that people could enjoy the beautiful weather. Combined with their confectionery and black tea imported from England, it was a murderous, sweet combination.

But that wasn't why he was suddenly unable to take a single step. Enjolras sat in one of the chairs. And he wasn’t alone. Next to him sat quite a handsome, tall, young man. He wore glasses on his nose and a jacket that looked expensive from the look, as well as gray pants and moccasins. He said something, and Enjolras laughed out loud. Grantaire was sure he heard him.

“Grantaire!” Joly suddenly shouted when he finally saw his friend and wrapped his arms around his neck. “I'm so glad to see you! Enough of you calling, man! Bossuet began to frighten me that some people were disappearing without a trace, and he kept telling me that they had kidnapped you.” He laughed, but Grantaire didn't notice him at all. “Hey, what's going on?” Joly asked carefully, looking in the same direction as his friend. “Look, that’s Enjolras and Di—”

“Take me home,” Grantaire pleaded, digging his fingers into Joly's shirt. “Please take me home.”

“Sure,” Joly said as soon as he noticed Grantaire lower his head and started to shake.

Yet Joly saw his tears.

_ — And he couldn't be without him. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

Joly sat on the floor, his back against Grantaire's sofa, stroking Grantaire's hair. He lay on his lap, crying and trying to breathe the pain he felt in his chest. “Can you tell me what happened?! Joly asked cautiously as he began stroking his shoulder with his other hand, which kept shaking.

“I-it doesn't matter.”

“It does. I haven't heard from you in so long, and when I finally hear from me, cheerful and excited that we can finally meet, you cry in front of me at the first opportunity?”

“I-I'm sorry.”

“No, no, no, Grantaire, no,” Joly whispered, leaning over his friend so he could kiss his ear. He knew he was sensitive there. Grantaire fidgeted and laughed. It tickled. “I'm not saying that to apologize to me. If you want to cry, cry. It's alright. But I want to know what's bothering you. What hurts?”

“My heart.”

“Do you have any pressure in it? Can you breathe? Should I call an ambulance?”

“Not such pain, Joly,” Grantaire laughed sincerely. How could he forget that Joly was caring, and only at the mention of pain was he able to call his entire hospital into his apartment? “It's mental.”

“Did your dep—”

“No,” he stopped him before he could say the word he hated so much.  _ Depression _ . As if the doctors could describe in a word what was bothering him. He hated them as much as he hated his dark thoughts. “It's… It's complicated.”

“I think I can understand a lot of things.”

“And it will take a lot of time.”

“I have enough time. Unlimited for you.”

Grantaire smiled. “Do you know who the boy with Enjolras was?”

“Oh, Dimitri? An exchange student from Russia who started working for Dr. Lamarque. He’s going to be in Paris for half a year. Lamarque instructed Enjolras to show him everything here. He’s here for two weeks, I think. They should have their first court hearing today, so Lamarque asked Enjolras to take Dimitri with him.” Oh, sure. The courtroom was at the end of the street. Just a few meters from the bakery. That's why Enjolras knew it so well. He always went there after work. “Why are you asking?”

“Just because.”

“Grantaire.”

The brunette didn’t miss the soft warning in Joly's voice. “It all started two years ago.”

And so Grantaire started. He told Joly absolutely everything. How he met Enjolras. The way he fell in love with him. How he wanted to get closer to him. The way he kissed him. The way they drank together and then they kissed. The way they made love. He told him about all the quarrels, about how he had embarrassed in front his parents, about how he had broken things for more than ten thousand euros. About how it ended between them and then they came back together. Like two magnets keeping close together.

“What should I do, Joly? I love him. So much.”

“I can't tell you what to do,” Joly told the truth as he hugged him. The whole situation seemed absurd to him. But suddenly he understood why he felt so strange every time he saw them side by side and noticed those strange looks. “I can only promise you that I will always stand by you. That you can trust me if something bothers you. But you’re an adult. You’re both adults. You have to solve it yourself.”

Grantaire sighed. He knew that the only way to get rid of the pain was to meet Enjolras again.

_ — And he was desperate. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

And so he stood there again, his hands clenched into fists, looking at the familiar door in front of him. He took a breath and knocked. In a few moments they opened, Enjolras standing in them - still as beautiful as two months ago. He said nothing, just looked into Grantaire’s eyes and waited. Grantaire couldn't stand his beautiful blue look. He looked away and looked at the toes of his shoes. His chest was filled with heat, which began to push against his heart. He had to rest his palm on his chest so he could breathe again. It didn't help. His breath was caught in his throat and he cried before he could say anything.

Enjolras came to him immediately, wrapped his arms around him, began to stroke his hair, and whispered, “Everything will be alright, Grantaire.” Enjolras took a few steps back until he reached the hall of his apartment, closed the door behind them, and slowly led Grantair to a place he knew even if he went blind. “Everything will be alright,” he whispered as he laid him on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

And Grantaire? Grantaire trusted him.

_ — And he was desperate. _

_ Grantaire was in love with Enjolras — _

“I love you,” he whispered into the silence of the bedroom, feeling Enjolras kissing him all over. Enjolras stroked him gently, trying to soothe him, but he kept his mouth open so they could say the words he needed. It hurted, but he knew it was the only way to finally give Grantaire some redemption.

He kissed his forehead and thrusted into him hard. Grantaire moaned loudly, touching his hips with his hands and pounding passionately in the same rhythm as the younger. His whole body was sweaty and his face was wet with tears. His ears rumbled and his body ached. All he could say at that moment was, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

_ — And he was desperate… _


	12. Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After yesterday's long story, I wrote something shorter today, but I hope just as good. I've been looking forward to this topic from the beginning, so I hope that I managed to write it at least as interestingly as I imagined in my head. :)

“So welcome to our kingdom,” Grantaire said with a wide smile as he unlocked the door, shoved it in, and placed a large suitcase in the center of the hall. Enjolras followed carefully. He looked as if he was thinking about every step. When he entered the hall, he looked around. It was painted in bright yellow color. His eyes ached a little. Opposite the shoebox was a wide, long mirror in which he could see himself. He frowned. Has he always had such deep, purple circles under his eyes? He looked like he hadn't slept well in weeks. And yet— “A coat.” Grantaire, who was reaching for his coat, interrupted his thinking. The blond began to unzip it slowly, but his fingers still trembled. He shook his hands before him a few times. “I'll help you,” the older man offered as he stood in front of him and unbuttoned all the buttons in a moment. He helped him off his shoulders and hung it on a hanger next to the mirror. “Do you want to unpack?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras thought about it, then just shook his head. He didn't feel like rummaging through things that were so foreign to him. Grantaire smiled at him, but the blond recognized that there was something sad and unspoken behind it. He had seen this smile several times in the last two weeks. On the faces of the doctors, the nurses, the men who claimed to be his friends, the woman who looked too young to consider herself as his mother, and especially the brunette who went to see him every day, even though he was still talking and he tried to confiscate him with hilarious stories; the smile was as false as the others. “I'd like some tea.”

“Okay. And which one? Black? Fruity?”

“Mint with a little honey.” Grantaire's eyes lit up and his smile widened. “Did I say something wrong?” The younger man asked as he misinterpreted his smile.

“On the contrary, Enjolras, that’s your favorite tea. I've prepared it for you several times.” His words said the unspoken  _ Do you remember? _ and Enjolras was glad he didn't ask. Because he didn't remember. “I’ll prepare him. You can go to the living room for now.” He pointed to the door in front of him and disappeared into the kitchen.

Enjolras slowly opened the door to the living room and breathed when he realized that the walls there were painted with a pleasant light blue color. In the middle of the room was a large white sofa, a small glass table, and a few flowers that no one seemed to care about much lately. Most of them had withered leaves, and when Enjolras touched them, they immediately fell to the ground. He sat on the edge of the sofa and looked around. Opposite the sofa was a television, several DVD movies tossed over, and above them shelves with decorations that complemented the warm home feeling of the apartment. Candles, glasses, rhinestones and - photography.

Enjolras heard Grantaire sing in the kitchen, and the water he had set for tea hadn’t yet begun to boil. According to the sounds, he was preparing something to eat. He hoped it would take him some time. He got up from the couch, walked over to the shelves, and looked at all the photos. Each was in a white frame with a different decoration.

The first frame was decorated with blue, glittering stones. Both of them were in the photo, wearing expensive suits, Enjolras red and Grantaire dark blue. They looked at the camera, smiled broadly, their eyes blazing, their faces red. Enjolras could only guess if it was because they were dancing or because of the champagne glasses they both held.

The second frame was decorated with white shells and sand. In the photo, Grantaire dipped his feet into the salty, seawater, his eyes watching Enjolras who kneeled beside him, dipped one hand in the water and hunted mussels with the other.

The third frame was decorated with torn purple flowers and green leaves. Grantaire and Enjolras sat at the table with all their friends. In front of Enjolras was a cake, two candles burning, and a paper rainbow cap on his head. Each of his friends wore a cap of a different color — he tried to remember all the names they repeated several times, but it didn't work — and they still had presents wrapped in their hands. Apparently it was some of his birthdays.

Someone drew several hearts with red watercolor on the last frame. Enjolras hugged Grantaire around the neck and pressed him against his body. Grantaire held Enjolras around his hips and smiled broadly, still with clearly recognizable dried tears on his face. Enjolras was wearing a black robe, a cap with red and gold trim on it. Grantaire held Enjolras's red diploma in his hand. “August 12,” the blond read aloud in the corner of the photo. He took the frame in his hand and looked at the close-up photo. He tried to remember why Grantaire was crying - was he proud of him? Or was it too hot and the sun was burning into his face? And why did he have a red diploma in his hand? Did that mean anything significant? And why wasn't he in the photo with his parents?

Enjolras sighed. He looked around the room, and only now did he notice that there was another mirror above the fireplace, where the logs and newspapers were ready to be lit. Enjolras didn't like to look at himself. He didn't know if it had always been that way, but now, whenever he saw his reflection, his whole chest tightened. And for one reason only - he didn't recognize himself. He didn't know  _ who he was _ .

Has he always had blond hair like that? Or did he dye them? How long has he lived here? How long has he known everyone? Why didn't he really like his own name -  _ Alexander Aurelius Enjolras _ ? Why did it seem so foreign to him? And why did he sometimes see the fog in front of his eyes and he wasn’t able to recognize some signs while driving until they were too close? Shouldn't he wear glasses? Did he ever tell anyone? Was that the reason he had a car accident two months ago?

His head started to ache. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and sighed. Doctors warned him that he wouldn’t be feeling too well for a few months. But no one warned him that his stomach would turn every time he tried to remember the events of two months ago.

There was a faint meow from somewhere. Enjolras turned at the sound. A small, black cat sat on the sofa with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. The cat moved its tail from side to side. Enjolras put the photo back on the shelf and approached the sofa. The cat didn't even move. Did he like cats at all? Wasn't he allergic to them? What was her name?

Enjolras sat on the edge of the couch and the cat immediately approached him. She sniffed his T-shirt and pants, and as soon as she reached her fingers with her snout, she spun contentedly, licked him, and curled up on his lap. Enjolras smiled. It was the only contact he'd really enjoyed in recent weeks. He began stroking the cat's soft fur and asked, “Have you known me for a long time? I need a little help. Who am I?”

Four weeks ago, he woke up on an unknown bed, in an unknown room, with strangers around him. His heart was pounding, he couldn't move his legs or arms, the light stung his eyes, and he couldn't leave them open. He tried to speak, but only a moan full of pain came out of his mouth. But that alerted a man standing beside him, immediately pressed a strange-looking button by the bed, leaned over him, kissed him on the forehead, and whispered something like  _ everything would be all righ _ t.

His heart didn’t calm down until two hours after one of the doctors gave him a sedative. Only then was Enjolras able to look at everyone in the room, look at everything, and ask the important, “Who are you?” One by one, the doctors introduced themselves to him, as did the nurses. “And what am I doing here?” They answered him simply - he had a car accident. Microsleep. He had only a few wounds, bruises, and a bruised wrist, but the car was sent for scrap that night. “Good. And what is a car accident?” At that moment, most of them fell silent and exchanged worried glances. One of the nurses moved closer to him and asked him if he could tell them his name. “I don't know. What’s my name? Will you tell me?”

It was normal for patients who got into an incident in which they hit their heads hard to suffer from memory loss. Doctors referred to this condition as _ temporary amnesia _ . The patient was able to remember everything that was important in his life within a few days, and although the memory may not have returned 100 percent, it was still a small outage that wasn’t limiting for the patient's life.

But a few hours became a few days. A few days a week. From a week to a month. And today it had been two months since Enjolras had been in the hospital, a month and a half since he had woken up from a coma, and for as long as he still couldn't remember anything. He was able to talk, read, walk, do basic hygiene, he knew what money was, and he could name most of the objects he saw. He knew the century, but he didn't know the year. He knew he was over twenty, but he couldn't tell exactly how old he was and when he had his birthday. He knew there were schools, but he had no idea he was in college and what he was studying. He didn't know anyone from his family, his friends, the people he had known in his life - and most importantly, not even himself. The doctors therefore decided to examine his condition and classify him as  _ selective amnesia _ . Enjolras was able to function as a human being. But his memories of people and the life he had lived before were gone.

Enjolras could accept it. He felt that he was a calm character who could take anything. But once he woke up and began to perceive the world around him, he realized that he was important to many people. A lot of boys went to visit him every day, each differently tall, differently handsome, differently educated, differently cheerful; every week a young woman came to him who said she was his mother; every day there was this black-haired man who brought him to  _ their  _ home; and he didn’t remember them. They laughed, told him stories, and showed him photos. But it didn't tell Enjolras anything. And so everyone always smiled at him. And that was the moment when Enjolras felt the greatest, annoying pressure on his chest, sending a few tears in his eyes. He felt guilty. Incompetently. He saw them trying to laugh falsely at him and give him the strength to keep fighting.

But he knew he wouldn't. He looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the face that was looking at him. He stroked the face of the woman who was his mother, but he couldn't remember any day she would raise him. He spoke to a spectacled man who said he had been his best friend by the age four, but not a single memory came to his mind. He spoke to a brunette who was his partner, but he couldn’t admit to anyone that he felt nothing more for him but what he did to those who had met until then. Has he forgotten what emotions are?

Enjolras's shadow haunted him everywhere. In the mirror, under his feet, behind his body. He looked at him from photos, from videos, from the eyes of others. But he couldn't get him back. He couldn't touch the shadow and force it to reattach it to his body. Being again  _ the Enjolras _ everyone knew. Doctors said it was too early to conclude anything and everything could get better any day; but why didn't the blonde want to believe it?

“I see Áres still has his favorite.” Enjolras winced, and the cat in his lap whimpered unhappily. Grantaire stood in the doorway with a tray in his hand on which were laid two hot teas and a few biscuits. As he sat next to Enjolras, the cat squeaked in displeasure and ran away. “That cat will eat me alive one day. Certainly. And it will be your fault,” he said, acting a little angry, handing Enjolras a cup of hot tea.

“Why?” Enjolras asked curiously.

“When you started studying at university, next to your work, you went to help a lady in a animal shelter. There was always interest in dogs, but no one wanted to take much care of cats. So you spent many nights feeding, petting, lice-removing the cats and cleaning their cages and toilets. Like, disgusting work, but you enjoyed it. You're a cat lover.”

“Really?” Enjolras sipped his tea and grunted contentedly. He really liked it. He had no idea why he had chosen this. It suddenly occurred to him. “And what else?”

“Well, once the cops came to the shelter because they found a box of kittens in the woods. There were about ten of them, I don't know exactly. They were newborn, still blind, they needed milk, otherwise they would die. And you didn’t go to school and meetings for a good month, because you wanted to help them. You only lived for those cats and together with the owner of the shelter you raise them and they’re strong, young kittens. They all already have homes. But one of them never wanted to leave you.” Grantaire pointed to the corridor where Áres had disappeared, but he could still hear him meowing loudly. “So after about three months, you took Áres home. And then, after a year, you decided that he would definitely be lonely when you’re at school or work and you took another kitten home. And in half a year another. And another next year. In short, we have six cats.” Grantaire laughed and reached for the biscuit. He took a bite, and with his mouth full, continued, “They're darlings, but Áres is terribly dependent on you. He can’t leave you alone. And he provokes all the other cats and doesn't like them. And not me at all. "

“Why?”

“Because I'm stealing his owner's attention,” the brunette said with a smirk, and Enjolras just nodded. They sat side by side in silence for a moment, Enjolras still looking around as if trying to remember every detail of the room, and Grantaire kept his eyes on him. “Still nothing?” The blond looked at Grantaire, who was smiling so sadly again. He averted his eyes to stop feeling the painful pressure on his chest. But it was too late. His heart was pounding again and his fingers were shaking. He preferred to place the cup on the table not to accidentally spill anything. Everything in the apartment looked new and expensive. Apparently they were saving money for several months. Maybe a year. What was he doing for a living? And what was Grantaire doing? His head began to ache again.

“Wait,” Grantaire whispered as he noticed Enjolras frown. He quickly finished his biscuit, approached Enjolras, placed his palms on his cheeks, and began massaging his hair with his fingers. After a moment, the pressure in his head eased a little. “Better?”

“A little.”

“I always did that when you learned a lot. You suffer from migraines.”

“Migraines?”

“I won't even explain it to you, I'm afraid you'll experience it in full force in a few days.”

“How do you know?”

“I know you, Enjolras.” Those words made Enjolras look Grantaire in the eyes. As he looked into his dark blue eyes, something moved inside him. His voice got stuck in his throat and he just whimpered softly. “Enjolras...” he whispered, but said nothing more.

“I'd like to know myself, too.”

Grantaire rested his forehead on his. “You will. And even if you don’t, nothing will change. Because it's still you. With or without memories.”

“But I don't even know if—” He bit his tongue. No. He can't say that. He can't admit he has no idea what love is. He can't admit that he doesn't feel that way. The _old Enjolras_ who looked at him from the photos and chased him behind his back would hate him for it.

“If you love me?” Enjolras opened his eyes and looked at Grantaire, frightened. But he looked at him with such tenderness and sincerity that he couldn’t lie to him. He nodded and the brunette smiled at him, his fingers still massaging his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We will fight it together. With or without love.”

And Enjolras believed him.


	13. Repair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was supposed to be a little longer, but the more details I wrote, the more it broke my heart. Apparently I haven't been in the mood for sad stories in recent days, and any harm to my characters doesn't suit me. Maybe because autumn is one of least favorite season among people thank to seasonal depression of many of people, that the idea of making someone sad even sadder or worse depressed, scares me. (This doesn’t mean, however, that I still have a few short stories with heartbreaking storylines, but so far only stored in folders and waiting). I think that I would write about this story more (mainly because of the method you will read about!), but it will still be necessary to work on it properly.
> 
> Ps: Although there is nothing explicit in the story, I still left the higher rating (M), because I think that such a topic may not be pleasant for everyone.

“Do you know what a  _ kintsugi  _ is?”

“…No?”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras in confusion, and inhaling that he would ask what was going on, Bahorel ran to their table with a glass of beer in his hand, ended up around the brunette's shoulders, and asked, “What are you talking about?” Their friends started to sit down next to them with drinks in their hands.

“I was just asking Grantaire about something,” Enjolras said as he rose from his seat and put on his jacket.

“You’re going already?” Combeferre asked, placing two glasses of orange juice in front of him. One of them was for Enjolras.

“I'm sorry. I still have a lot of work to do at home,” he apologized with a slight smile on his face, and before everyone could say goodbye to him, he left.

“He's completely wasting his young life,” Bahorel complained, as if it were his. “He'll regret it one day!”

“But at least he won't die at thirty on a hardened liver,” Joly countered as he drank from his soft cocktail, which shone with all its colors.

“Someone else is up to it,” he laughed, pressing even harder on Grantaire, who just smiled faintly at him. “What? You're kind of stunned. Did Enjolras scolded you again for opposing him to tax regulation? It was immediately clear to me that he wasn't just talking with you.”

“No,” Grantaire said, finished and ordered another bottle of wine. “He was just asking me something.”

“Okay,” Bahorel realized he wasn't in the mood to talk to him about it, so he focused on someone else.

Grantaire looked in all directions, and as soon as he saw their youngest member, he unobtrusively broke free from Bahorel's grip and tapped him on the shoulder. “Jehan?” The young man stopped playing with his long, red hair and looked at Grantaire with a smile. “Do you know what is, um, ehm, God, what it was...  _ 'kasturi _ ?'  _ Kensury _ ?”

“Don't you mean  _ kintsugi _ ?” Grantaire just nodded. “I know! It's a Japanese method of gluing cracks.” It didn't tell him anything. He frowned, and Jehan understood, so he continued, “Imagine you had a really beloved porcelain set after your grandmother. And one of the cups broke. And you definitely don't want to throw it away, because it was a monument and you have a relationship with that mug. So you take the gold dust, mix it with the resin and glue all the shards together. The mug is repaired, and with a beautiful, golden pattern!”

“Why would anyone do that?” Grantaire asked as the waitress brought him more wine and he poured himself a drink. “Isn't it better to just throw it away normally?”

“Maybe,” Jehan admitted. “But maybe you had something to do with the cup. Or there was an important memory attached to it, an event, something you didn't want to forget. Or you can't get rid of it for some other reason.” Jehan smiled at him and added, “Besides, the Japanese believe that even in broken things there is beauty, and we shouldn't get rid of something just because it's damaged. I like this philosophy.” The brunette just nodded and drank as the younger man asked, “Why are you even interested in this?”

“School assignment,” he lied. Jehan just nodded and together they began to focus on their friends.

When Grantaire got home that night, he couldn't sleep. He kept wondering why Enjolras had asked him about it. Why him and not Jehan, who knew everything about art, or Combeferre, who was a walking encyclopedia and knew the answer to everything. Why did he want to talk to him about it?

He rolled from side to side all night. When dawn broke, he went irritably into the kitchen and made coffee he hated. He remembered what Jehan had told him.  _ Even in broken things, there is beauty. _ Was Enjolras interested in this because he saw a metaphor for France in it? Their government? Or the revolution itself?

No, he had a very honest look. He still had his typical stone face, his eyes unreadable, but his lips trembled, he rubbed his fingers, and the tips of his ears were red. This is what he always looked like when he was nervous. He had seen him like this several times in recent months. Even Combeferre, who was used to everything with his friend, sometimes asked others what was happening with Enjolras. He always just told them -  _ Nothing's happening _ or -  _ Everything's fine. _ And why wouldn’t be? Enjolras didn’t talk about his problems. Did he have any at all?

Of course he did. Everyone had problems. Even the smallest one - (like Courfeyrac's new, chestnut hair, which he didn't like at all and refused to look at his reflection in the mirror, until his hairdresser decided to change his color to lighter) - bothered everyone. But - what were the Enjolras like? He always spoke so generally. Is that  _ kintsugi  _ thing a metaphor for his life?

Grantaire frowned. He thought of Enjolras often, but you could say superficially. He thought of his figure, his charisma, his thick hair, his beautiful eyes. He never thought he might be too thin. Or that he sometimes wore glasses and his eyes twinkled strangely with fatigue and tears. Or that he sometimes recognized the poorly rubbed makeup under his eyes, which he tried to cover deep circles under his eyes. Or that he tried not to think about the bruises on his wrist that didn’t disappear for so long…

He sighed. Enjolras' attendance at school was excellent as were his grades. He was promoted all the time at work, and everyone assumed that before his twenty-five birthday, he would become the youngest head of the social law department. He always spoke well at meetings, calmly, he didn't let the little things change his attitude. His presentations were always perfect, detailed. He always had quiet demonstrations planned, he was able to moderate the crowd as well as to set a fire inside them. So where did the suspicion that something was wrong with him came from?

Grantaire knew why. It started half a year ago. Enjolras didn’t arrive for the meeting. This happened sometimes, so it didn't seem strange to anyone. But when it happened for the fourth time, everyone noticed. He didn’t answer messages to anyone, he didn’t pick up the phone. After a month, he appeared in the doorway of Café Musain as if nothing had happened. He apologized to everyone for having too much work and urgent family matters, and everything was back on track. But something was wrong. His attitude was a little crooked and his eyes were still strangely checking everything and everyone in the room. He always dodged, when Courfeyrac tried to hug him. As soon as Bahorel offered him a drink, he refused. He always left first, before the sun set. When any of them invited him to a glass of wine, to the cinema, to the theater, to the park, he always asked -  _ And at what time? _ And when it came to anything at night, he always couldn't mysteriously.

_ I have a lot of work. I need to study for exams. I already have a program. _

They've heard those three sentences several times in the last six months. And Grantaire was the first to find something wrong about it. He asked him three weeks ago, and Enjolras answered him as everyone had. But after the meeting, he asked him one thing:  _ “Do you really think I've changed?” _

_ “At least that's how it comes to me,”  _ he said. And Enjolras just nodded and left. And then, suddenly, he asked him such a thing.

His head started to ache. He didn't understand him. He behaved the same as Éponine when—

The mug with coffee fell to the ground with a loud bang. Coffee and shards flew in all directions. But Grantaire didn't care, he had been standing in the hall for a long time, putting on his sneakers and quickly reaching for a coat he was able to put on in the elevator. He wasn't waiting for the bus, he was just running. His legs knew where to run, and although his lungs protested that they needed air, he didn't notice them. He needed to see Enjolras now. As soon as possible!

He arrived at the door to Enjolras's apartment in record time. He may have fainted at any moment, but he didn't notice. He knocked, rang the bell several times, and when Enjolras's stony face appeared in the doorway, he shoved himself in and quickly closed the door behind him. “So  _ kintsugi _ , right?” He asked breathlessly, and Enjolras sighed. He went to the kitchen, poured water into a glass, and handed it to him. Grantaire drank it all in one gulp, and as he set down his glass, he exhaled loudly, “You couldn't tell me like a normal person?!”

“How else was I supposed to say?”

“I don't know, maybe — look, Grantaire, I started acting weird because someone—” He quickly bit his tongue. He already understood why he hadn't told him. How could he? He couldn't say it either..

“Raped me,” Enjolras added, and Grantaire felt his throat dry. He widened his eyes and couldn't blink. He opened his mouth to say something, but none of it came out. “I don't mind the word. You can tell it. It describes exactly what happened and I shouldn’t resist it. Or so the psychiatrist told me.”

“Psychiatrist?” Grantaire's voice was a full three octaves higher. 

“Yes. That's what people usually do after such an experience, they come for professional help.”

“Yeah, but never—” _ I wouldn't have thought that someone as strong as you would need someone like that. _ But he didn't want to say it either. How would that help him? Wouldn't he call him  _ weak _ ? He didn't want to humiliate him. And even though Enjolras said it was okay, he didn't feel that way. As if the fact bothered Grantaire more than Enjolras. “W-why me?”

“Because you have experience with that.”

“Repairing pottery? Really not.”

“That was a metaphor.”

_ At least I understood something _ , Grantaire thought, and finally looked at Enjolras. He still looked the same. As beautiful as when he first saw him. He just looked so -  _ sad _ . Was it even possible to control the emotions of the people around you so strongly? Or did Grantaire have only a weakness for Enjolras and perceive every change in his life as his own? “What for?”

“To help me,” Enjolras admitted, sitting down in one of the chairs at the dining table. He motioned for Grantaire to sit next to him. When the brunette sitted down, he continued, “You have experience with this. You helped Éponine when she went through the same thing as me. Thanks to you, she was able to talk about it and deal with it. I understood the need to have a person next to me who was able to stand by me, no matter what happened or whatever happened. And I understand you're the best at it.”

“What about Combeferre? Courfeyrac? Or Feuilly?” Enjolras gave him only a look from which Grantaire understood only one thing —  _ they didn't know _ . “Don't you think they would be a better help to you?”

“But they don't love me.”

“Enjolras, we all love you. All. If you ask anyone, you would—”

“But they don't love me as much as you do.”

“As me? What does that mean—  _ oh _ .” Grantaire swallowed dry again, muttering something. He could never hide when he liked someone. He knew he was admiring his affection too much. A few times, Bossuet or Joly made fun of him and said that one day he would bother Enjolras so much that he would rather get together with him than still respect his praise and amorous looks. But he never knew that the blonde really  _ knew  _ about it.

“Love is important. Love can heal.” Enjolras reached out to Grantaire and placed it on his palm. An electric shock shot through Grantaire, pounding his heart at such a rate that it almost jumped out of his chest. Enjolras's palm was hot and a little sweaty, his grip firm but still sensitive. “And I want you to help me cure me with her.”

Grantaire looked at him without blinking. He watched his blue eyes, trying to find the joke in them that he hoped hid behind it all. What could he not believe more - what had happened to Enjolras or what he wanted from him?

“I don't want to use you for my own selfish purposes. You can refuse,” Enjolras said after a moment's silence, wanting to withdraw his hand.

But Grantaire grabbed him tightly and pulled him closer. “How would you imagine that?”

Grantaire could swear Enjolras smiled at him. Just lightly, for a moment, but his smile was real and heartfelt. Enjolras approached him so that they could feel each other's hot bodies, but still far enough away from each other so as not to disturb their personal space. “First we have to look at what broke down and figure out how to fix it—”  _ First, I need to tell you everything about what happened.  _ “—Then we would slowly begin to collect shards—”  _ I would need you to go through every memory with me, one by one, and teach me how to live with it.  _ “—Pick up the first shard—” Enjolras lifted their intertwined hands from the table and placed them on his cheek. It burned just like his whole skin. Was that okay? Didn't he have a fever? “—Then you would mix gold dust and resin so that it could attach to the second shard—”  _ Teach me to deal with that _ . “—And then the third and fourth, one by one—”  _ Teach me to love the touch and warmth of the human body again. _ “—So that they all fit together—”  _ Teach me not to be afraid of the night and help me not to have nightmares every night. _ “—Then just glaze everything together—”  _ Teach me to accept my body again. _ “—And the whole repair is done.”  _ Help me live again and feel love _ .

Enjolras looked at Grantaire and swallowed loudly. His eyes were full of pain and tears. “Help me, Grantaire.”

“I'll help you,” Grantaire said, pulling Enjolras into his arms and stroking his blond hair with his fingers. “I'll help you,” he said again.

“Repair me,” Enjolras whispered in a strangled voice as he buried his nose in his shoulder. After a moment, Grantaire felt hot tears begin to fall on his sweater. He pressed the blonde on his chest even tighter. He wanted to give him a sense of security, at least for a while. “Hey, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked in a voice so weak that the brunette almost overheard him.

“Yes?”

“Do you know what  _ kintsugi  _ is?”

“Yes. It's my method of putting together a broken, marble statue.”


	14. Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In these difficult times, there are definitely things that I miss. And among them are balls. I've always enjoyed going to all kinds of balls - to villages one, pub ones, graduation ones or regional ones; those who had themes or those that shone with luxury. I've always liked something about it. This year I only managed to dance at one ball before the whole covid event broke out in full force in our country, which, unfortunately, is still dragging on and will probably not end as soon as we had hoped. And so I made it up for myself by writing today this theme. :)

Grantaire adjusted the bow tie on his neck and looked in the mirror. He was wearing a black jacket that glistened green under the lights. He had a tight, white shirt under his jacket. The trousers were of the same material as the jacket, but were tighter and embroidered with white and gold rhinestones. He wore new, brown moccasins that matched his brown belt and leather wristband. He tied a long string around his neck, on which a translucent stone cut into a small tear. It looked like a crystal. It was a piece of jewelry that he valued and wore only once a year. He received it as a gift from his  _ Prince _ . Just remembering their moments together, Grantaire smiled and began to play with the jewel. He loved the cold touch of the jewel that reminded him of the  _ Prince's  _ palm.

He reached for the mask that lay on the table next to the mirror. He put it on, looked in the mirror several times, took off his mask again, hid it under his jacket, and left his apartment. It was a little after eight in the evening, and he knew that the club he had just gone to had long since opened. Grantaire patted his feet nervously all the way. He didn't want to show how much he was looking forward to it, but he couldn't help but smile. He had to take a deep breath at any moment so that his own lungs wouldn’t suffocate him as his heart pressed them against his chest.

No one was on the street when he got off at his bus stop. It was already cold outside, cutting uncomfortably into every bit of exposed skin. It was a thick darkness that made it impossible to see a step, without the lamps that illuminated at least parts of the street, Grantaire wouldn’t have seen anything. But he knew where he was going even if he was blind. He had walked this path so many times that he recognized every new hole in the sidewalk and a fallen leaf from a tree.

As he walked into a narrow alley lined with stone walls, he heard muffled music coming from behind a red door at the end of a dead end. They were illuminated by a blue light, and there stood two men in black suits. They looked cold, inaccessible, and even Grantaire had to admit that he would normally be afraid of them. But now he approached them with a smile, pulled a membership card from his pocket, which the two men looked at, nodded, and opened the door for him. Heat and rhythmic music immediately began to emanate from them.

Grantaire came in and the men closed behind him. He took a deep breath and smiled. He knew this smell. It brought only beautiful memories to him, and he hoped it wouldn't be any different today. He walked to the locker room, where two boys were having fun with a young man who was sitting by a coats, collecting admission fees. According to his blush, the two men made inappropriate proposals for him. He knew the men - both were businessmen who drank only selected Scotch whiskey or Irish whiskey. They were best friends who had one thing in common - they couldn't flirt. They always tried to leave with a nice, young, ideally inexperienced boy, but soon each of them saw through their sweet talk and weak tricks. From the very beginning, the more attentive of them noticed a bruised spot on the ring finger, which revealed that they were both married and took these rendezvous only as entertainment for their otherwise quite boring life. The boy, whose shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his abdomen, had his entire chest red. Under normal circumstances, he would stand up for him, send them both to the bar and ask them to let him be. He didn't know him, apparently he was a newcomer who didn't have much experience yet. Overall, or at least with men like them.

But now he just walked past them, waved his membership card at the boy, and walked past them to the front door, which bounced under the onslaught of loud music. He took a breath, pulled out the mask he had put on his jacket, and looked in the mirror next to the door. The mask was dark green, shiny, embroidered with white stones, and adorned with a few glitter. Several peacock and sparrow feathers protruded from it. “You look beautiful, Grantaire.” The brunette turned to a duo of men staring at him hungrily. “If the little prince doesn't fuck you today, come to find me.”

“I’ll never be so desperate in my life,” he laughed at his offer, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the man blush and his friend laugh out loud.

He opened the door and entered the main hall, where loud music was playing, the lights were dimmed, and colored lights flashed everywhere. Grantaire leaned against the railing and looked downstairs, where most of the bar's visitors were. The dance floor was full, everyone bouncing to the beat, some cuddling to their counterpart, some shouting loudly and laughing. Grantaire loved it here. He liked how non-binding, free and happy everyone was.

He walked downstairs and sat down at the bar next to the dance floor, but still far enough away so that the music wouldn't disturb him and he would have some peace. “As usual?” The bartender asked him as soon as he saw his familiar face. Grantaire just nodded and looked at the dance floor. He examined his eyes for any familiar faces. But he didn't recognize anyone under the masks. The costumes were getting better every year. He always thought that masquerades were the domain of village parties or luxury parties, he would never expect anything like that in a gay bar.

The bar was opened five years ago by an elderly gentleman and he named it after his dead lover -  _ Dominique. _ The bar was smaller, beautifully decorated and had more rules than any larger bar. This discouraged especially those who considered fooling young boys as the biggest pastime on Saturday night. Unlike other bars, there were mostly live bands with a repertoire of jazz, soul and r’n’b. Only once a year, on Dominique's birthday, the owner still has a big, masquerade party. Dominique loved everything ostentatious, loud, shiny, kitschy. And he wanted to remember him thanks to it. And everyone who went to the bar enjoyed this evening. Once a year, they were allowed to let their hidden desires speak and enjoy life. “He's not here yet,” the bartender said suddenly in his ear. He turned to the bartender, who placed a red, mixed drink in front of him and began to focus on other customers.

Grantaire drank from a glass and began to think. Was it obvious how desperate he was? How did he long for only one man he had met here for three years? He was ashamed of it. He knew that if he pointed to anyone today, he would go with him. He could meet someone new, whether for one night or something more. But he didn't want to. This evening belonged to him and  _ his Prince. _

_ His Prince _ . He shivered. Could he name him that way? Certainly not. He wasn't his. In fact, he didn't even know him properly. Not like that. “Hi.” Grantaire winced and looked beside him, where a man in disguise as a devil had settled down. His friend who had been trying to find the man of his dreams for the last two years. Without success. Apparently, karma made sure he suffered long enough for cheating at his partner, who loved him and gave him everything he wanted.

Two drinks and some funny stories later, the music calmed down and the lights stopped flashing. The parquet began to empty, and most of the guests went to their tables to replenish the necessary fluids and energy. The room plunged into a light blue, a light gray mist came from somewhere, and tones of quiet, slow jazz came from the speakers. As always, half an hour was devoted to those who wanted to relax with quiet music or dance a little more with their partner. As always, it was a time when most men were smiling and looking happily at the floor, hoping that one day they would dance with someone like that. As always, it was a time when Grantaire joined the dancefloor.

The first notes of the new song sounded, and Grantaire heard someone approaching. His heart pounded, and when a graceful hand touched his shoulder, his throat went dry. He finished his glass quickly, turned, and - his brain stopped working. He was here.  _ His Prince _ was here. As always, he was wearing a white suit embroidered in blue and gold. His blond hair was combed back, fastened with a thick gel to hold it in place. He had a beautiful cat mask on his face that gleamed in all directions. This time, his suit lacked white gloves, but was replaced by gold jewelry on his wrists and fingers. They perfectly complemented his charisma and radiant personality. “Shall we dance?” He asked in a soft voice, and Grantaire could only nod. He accepted his hand and a faint, electric shock shot through his body. His hands were cold, delicate.

Hand in hand, they came to the center of the floor, where there were few couples whispering to each other or leaning on each other in the tightest hugs. The  _ Prince  _ turned to him, adjusted his frame, and waited for Grantaire to receive him. They intertwined their fingers and began to slowly sway to the rhythm of the calm music. They stared into each other's eyes the whole time, not blinking. Grantaire loved his eyes. They were blue like the sea after a storm - dark, wild, but still so charming. Grantaire was guided by his experienced steps and smiled each time his elbows struck lightly. Grantaire never danced, and certainly not at classical dances. But  _ the Prince  _ could dance, he moved gracefully and confidently on the floor.

The music slowed a little more, and the piano and violin came from the speakers. The lights dimmed a little, and the steam was almost gone _. The Prince _ released Grantaire's hands and moved them to his hips. He pulled him close until Grantaire hugged him around the neck and they stood in each other's arms. Grantaire closed his eyes happily, buried his nose in his shoulder — he was only inches lower — and inhaled his scent. He pressed against him even more, as if he was afraid he would run away. But _ the Prince  _ had no such plans, he moved his fingers a little lower, to his hips, dug his fingers into them, forcing Grantaire to move from side to side in a calm rhythm.

It was a romantic moment Grantaire was enjoying until he felt the slow pace and hug make him excited. He opened his eyes and tried to turn his pelvis to the side, but  _ the Prince  _ stopped him. He pressed against him even more. “Do you want to go upstairs?” The Prince asked in a voice he knew so well. He was as excited as he was. He could feel it on his stomach, even in the firm grip of his hips. Grantaire closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around his neck, and was able to just nod his head.  _ The Prince _ grabbed his hand and both of them left the dance floor.

Grantaire was blindly guided through the familiar place until he realized that the music was too quiet. When he opened his eyes again, they walked down a red corridor with several photographs and a door to the rooms from which guests must have a key. The owner gave them only to the most loyal and decent customers. And that  _ his Prince _ was. No one knew him by name, no one had ever seen him without a costume, no one really knew who this mysterious, beautiful man was.

Except for Grantaire. He knew him all too well.

They reached the end of the hall, _ the Prince _ pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked it, and entered the room together. It was decorated in red, as was the hallway. In the middle of the room was a large bed with gold sheets, opposite it was a wide and long mirror. There was a small hanger and chest of drawers in the room, where they could hide everything important, and another door that led to a small, private bathroom. The whole space was brightened by a few green flowers. The room was small but cozy. And it was enough for what they were both preparing for.

As soon as they entered, the Prince turned Grantaire's back on him, taped his chest on the door, and grabbed him by the shoulders. He squeezed them several times before running his hands down a little lower - on his elbows, hands, chest, abdomen, hips. He touched Grantaire's neck with his nose, sucking on his cologne, skin, and sweat. He breathed loudly and occasionally pushed his hips until he rubbed against Grantaire's back.

Grantaire's eyes were closed, his forehead and hands on the door, and he sighed loudly. It was just a touch, but even that could excite him so much that he stopped thinking. Wasn't it stupid to go with someone he didn't know? “Grantaire,”  _ the Prince _ whispered excitedly, kissing him on the neck.

“Enjol—” He didn't finish when he felt the blond run his fingers over his lips. He stroked him for a moment before he pushed his fingers into his mouth and began to play with his tongue. Grantaire licked his fingers hungrily, as if it were his tongue. He grunted contentedly, his lips opening and closing as if he could taste his sweet, soft lips. They didn't kiss over the three years.  _ The Prince  _ always dodged his chin. Only a few times did he allow him to kiss his cheek or forehead.

“Grantaire,” the Prince whispered excitedly in his ear, biting his lobe.

Grantaire wanted to moan his name, but through the fingers in his mouth, he could only giggle something softly. In his thoughts, however, he repeated over and over -  _ Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras. _ His friend, the leader, a man he had known for five years; for the third year in a row, he became his lover. He recognized him - today, last time and for the first time. He could never hide from him. He always recognized his beautiful hair, the bewitching look, his tall build, his charming charisma, and the glow he sowed around him. For the first time, he may have been surprised to see each other, and terrified of what was happening between them; but he accepted it. How could he refuse? It was  _ Enjolras _ . His  _ prince _ . His  _ love _ .

Grantaire groaned loudly and touched Enjolras' crotch several times with his ass. He was pleased to feel how excited he was. Enjolras pulled his fingers from his mouth, pulled his shirt from his pants, and touched his nipple with wet fingers. It immediately began to harden. Grantaire tilted his head, laid on Enjolras's shoulder, and moaned contentedly. He had a different lover every week, and you could actually say that he had a pretty wild and interesting sex life. But nothing compared to when he was with Enjolras. His fingers, body, kisses, smells. Everything was unique, experienced and exciting.

Enjolras moved his lips back to his neck and began kissing him. He licked his sweat and taste with his tongue, touching a swollen vein that beat in the rhythm of his heart. He finally moved his other hand from the side to his crotch and squeezed it. Grantaire winced, his legs starting to shake. If he hadn't leaned on Enjolras, he would have fallen to the ground a long time ago. Enjolras stroked his entire length with his palm, enjoying how, despite the textile, he could feel it beating.

“Enj—” Brunette was again unable to pronounce his name. Enjolras grabbed his wrist and threw him onto the bed in one strong, quick pull. Grantaire's face fell into the soft duvets. Enjolras stood behind him, moving his palms to his hips and forcing him to lift them. With a few experienced strokes, he unbuckled his belt, button on his pants and zipper. He smiled when he realized that Grantaire wasn’t wearing any underwear. His fingers immediately touched his entire length. It was hot, swollen, and veined. Grantaire rested his forehead on the mattress, closed his eyes, and all he could do was breathe loudly and whimper. He felt like a whore who was paid for such a performance. But he couldn't help it, he needed Enjolras to know he was enjoying it.

His every move was fast, firm, but still soft and cold. When he felt Grantaire jerk several times in his hand, he released him and began to unzip his pants. Grantaire only wanted one. Touch him or kiss him or have a chance to look into his face. He would be able to beg for it, but he knew his pleas wouldn’t be heard. He began to grip his hand behind him, but as soon as he touched Enjolras's bare skin, the younger man grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back. It was strange for someone so beautiful to be so strong.

There was a click, wet, greasy sounds, and immediately Grantaire felt the pressure in a place where he was still trying to deny that he liked it so much. He was always the one who was dominant, who gave speed and depth. He always tried to have the upper hand over his lover. But not with Enjolras. He let him play with him, prepare him, his fingers touching him in places no one else had access to. Enjolras was exceptional. And this was the only thing he could give him in return.

Enjolras pulled the protection from his pocket, bit it expertly, and put it on. “Someone came ready.” He didn't speak normally, took only a few sighs, or said Grantaire's name. Grantaire himself was surprised and opened his eyes for a moment, as if waiting for the blond to stop, turn him on his back and start talking to him. But he immediately forgot about such an idea when Enjolras penetrated him and in a moment he was inside him by the root. He sighed and lay all over his chest on the bed as the carefully cut hair around his pubes tickled his skin. He turned his head to the side to see at least a bit of his face.

The sight was unforgettable. The mask was thrown somewhere on the ground along with his jacket. He was still wearing a shirt that was translucent, so Grantaire could enjoy looking at his pink nipples. His eyes were closed, his mouth ajar, all wet as he ran his tongue over them all the time. His cheeks and ears were slightly pink with excitement. When he opened his eyes and saw the brunette looking at him, he frowned, “You shouldn't look.”

“I have to,” Grantaire whispered. “There's a wonderful view of you, Enjolras.”

“Don't say my name,” the younger complained when he first slammed into him, and Grantaire moaned loudly.

“I-I have to,” the elder repeated. “Enjolras.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras whispered unhappily. He stuck his chest to his back and pressed him to the mattress. His cock began to rub against his stomach and the sheets, on which droplets of precome remained. Grantaire tried to turn once more, to see his face, but Enjolras began kissing him on the neck and bit him in the artery each time he tried to turn.

“W-why?” Grantaire asked quietly, finally able to breathe between the thrusts. “Every time I-say- _ ooh _ — you'll, you'll get b-bigger, Enjolras.” As soon as his name sounded in the room, Enjolras pushed harder, deeper, and his entire cock sank. “Are you excited, Enjolras?” Instead of answering, Enjolras bit him hard in the throat, feeling as if he had to bite his skin. But it didn't hurt Grantaire at all. On the contrary. He squeezed the back on Enjolras even more and let him penetrate as deeply as possible so that he could enjoy his warmth and tightness. “I like it too, Enjolras.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras moaned, grabbing his hair with his hand and jerking him back hard. He revealed his entire neck, which Enjolras began to kiss hungrily and to bite alternately in the same rhythm as he was pounding inside him. Grantaire closed his eyes contentedly and whispered his name all night.

When Grantaire woke up in the morning, breakfast was waiting for him in bed with a message and keys. Enjolras did it every time. In a message, he thanked him for a beautiful night, saying,  _ “I'll be here again next year.” _ He had breakfast, took a shower, pulled the clothes Enjolras had prepared for him from the chest of drawers, and left the room. He handed the keys to the bartender, who was wiping glasses and putting them in a display case. “Good night?” He asked with a smile.

“The best,” Grantaire answered, and left the club.

He decided to rest. Instead of going to school, he went home, where he played his favorite classical music and sprawled on the couch. He remembered that night, all his touches, his words, his beautiful lips. He smiled and breathed contentedly.

Feeling tired and a little swollen from Enjolras’  _ care _ , he decided to go to a meeting of  _ Les Ámis _ . He was in a good mood. He wanted to share it with his friends and have a few glasses of wine. But he noticed that a lot of people were looking at him along the way and whispering something. It was clear to him that they commented on his wide smile and light gait. However, when he reached the back room of Café Musain, he realized that they were probably looking for another reason. “Dude, Grantaire, you don't have to admire everyone that you fucked yesterday!” Shouted Bahorel when he saw him and Jehan gave him a little smack on the head. The redhead hated it when someone spoke rudely. Bahorel only groaned, but his scream made everyone look at Grantaire.

“Wow,” Joly whispered, his mouth open and eyes wide.

“Hot night?” Bossuet laughed.

“Who did you fuck with - a vampire?” Courfeyrac asked in surprise.

Grantaire didn’t understand what was happening. Combeferre, blinking in confusion and blushing, pointed to the door, where a small mirror hung. He turned and immediately blushed. His whole neck glowed with red and purple marks. Grantaire immediately covered the place with his hand and groaned. He was sensitive and a little painful.

“Can we start?” Enjolras cut through the silence in the room. Everyone turned to him. “You can talk about your escapades later, now we have more important things to do,” he said in his typical sharp, cold voice. Everyone just nodded and joined in the discussion. But Grantaire noticed that the tips of Enjolras's ears were red.

Grantaire left the meeting earlier than usual. As soon as Enjolras had finished and their meeting was over, all his friends settled around him and began to ask him who he was with yesterday. He was pleased with their interest, but any question they conjured in his mind was the memory of a perfect evening with their leader, and it was causing changes in his crotch that he didn't need right now. It was difficult to avoid their questions, and over time he found that the only way to be calm was to run inconspicuously. When he felt that the pressure in his crotch was getting too strong and his face was too red, he apologized for needing to go to the bathroom. Instead, he left the cafe for fresh air. He came to a bus stop to his home and sat on a bench. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and relaxed. The cold air of the autumn evening cooled his hot cheeks and erection.

Suddenly he felt something warm on his shoulders. He opened his eyes and looked at him in horror. But as soon as he recognized his friend's face, he blinked and breathed immediately. “You scared me,” he complained.

“I'm sorry,” the blond said with a smile as he tied his red scarf around his neck, which not only covered his marks, but also warmed him beautifully. Grantaire immediately buried his nose in it. It smelled the same as Enjolras - slightly orange and burnt wood. “All right?” Enjolras asked as he took a few steps back from him.

“Yes,” Grantaire growled into his scarf.

There was silence between them. They were both waiting for their bus.

Enjolras’ arrived first. As he boarded the half-empty bus, he turned and looked Grantaire straight in the eye. “Next year again?” He asked, and Grantaire felt his breath catch in his throat. Enjolras watched him with sincere interest.

“Sure,” the brunette said just before the door closed. As the bus disappeared around the corner, Grantaire dug his fingers into his scarf and sighed contentedly, “So again next year,  _ my prince _ .”


	15. Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting tired and I find that there will be nothing more absurd in this challenge than today's story. Originally, I didn't even want to write it, and I wanted to write something more philosophical about today's theme, but as soon as I started writing, my absurd part of the personality decided to write about the strangest, short story I have on my list. (And I keep thinking that if I find this the "weirdest", I'm still fine). Perhaps nothing will surpass it anymore (Although I should probably admit now that I have a similar story for Grantaire, I have been on the list of ideas for some time). So I wish you a beautiful reading and if you are very interested - Enjolras looks [[like this](https://www.modrykocour.cz/stories/1152_3.jpg)] in today's chapter.

Enjolras had a routine that was repeated daily. He got up in the morning, brushed his teeth, took a shower for exactly ten minutes. On odd days he made a sweet breakfast, in even salty breakfast. He basically drank only herbal teas sweetened with honey. On the way to school, he stopped at a newsstand and read the daily news. He went to school, passed all the exams with the best score, after school went to an hour-long consultation with the professor regarding his master's thesis and went to a late lunch. He always had something light with water or raspberry juice. Then he went to the library where he studied. He always left ten minutes after five in the afternoon to catch a metro to the street where the Café Musain was located. There he greeted the waitress, asked the owner how he was doing, ordered savory pastries and bitter coffee. He unlocked the back room door and waited for the other members of the  _ Les Ámis _ . When the waitress brought him a second coffee, this time with milk and sugar, the meeting began. After two hours, he went to Dr. Lamarque's evening service, where he learned about the trials and went through all the important case documents with him. At eleven o'clock at night, he and the other lawyers left for a subway stop, where he politely declined their invitation for a glass of wine. He got home, took a twenty-minute bubble bath, and always washed his hair with strawberry shampoo. He had a cold dinner, sat down at the TV, watching news or documentaries. At one in the morning he went to bed, set the alarm for half past six in the morning, and fell asleep.

And that's how it went day after day, hour after hour. Enjolras was glad to be sure in advance what would happen. Most of his friends complained that he didn't enjoy anything in his life and they felt sorry for him, but he never understood them. Just having control over everything was the most fun for him.

Yet he sometimes made exceptions. He made an exception between his tightly structured program. But he always had to be in a good mood and explain in his head why he was doing it.

It was no different today, instead of going home after work, joining his colleagues for a glass of wine. This was due to the success of Dr. Lamarque, who won a lawsuit over entrusting a child to the care of his beloved grandmother. Enjolras had been with the case from the very beginning, and when the judge ruled in his favor, he felt as if he had won alone. He was happy and wanted to share his mood and smiles with others. Everyone's eyes lit up when the young man finally agreed and accepted their invitation.

Two blocks away was a small, sunken wine bar, but it was cozy and a little more expensive than what Enjolras was normally used to. He was quiet, rather than talking, listening, but he smiled warmly at everyone and praised their good work. Everyone under his words blushed or laughed like adolescent children. Or maybe it was the alcohol that was slowly affecting them. Even Enjolras could feel his head heavy, but his body was supple, he still needed to bow his head down and chuckle.

One in the morning he left the wine bar with all his colleagues. Along the way, they talked about how stupid a hairstyle one of them had, and they still touched its red-colored ends. “It's a new fashion, all right!” He defended himself, and everyone, including Enjolras, laughed out loud all over the street.

“Would you like to know your future, young sir?” Voice suddenly said beside Enjolras, who winced. He looked at the corner of the street where the little old woman was standing, wearing batik clothes, gray hair falling from under the scarf from her head to her belly. But her face was smooth, wrinkle-free, and her hazel eyes almost glowed in the dark. She was sitting under one lamp, with a small table in front of her with a crystal ball, cards, dream catchers, stones. At the corner of the table lay a black cat, one paw slung down over the edge, eyes wide open - light blue, almost the same as Enjolras's. “Or would you prefer an interpretation from the cards?”

“Yes!” One of her colleagues shouted, pulling her wallet out of her pocket.

“Don't be silly,” the oldest of them stopped her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “We're not interested!” He said, perhaps in a very rough tone, to the old woman and looked back at his friends, “Who would be sitting here in one morning? It's a scam.”

“Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean I don't,” said a colleague, inflating her cheeks but hiding her wallet back in her pocket.

“Then tell me please when—” The colleague to whom everyone laughed pointed to the youngest of them, who was known for his forgetfulness. “—this man would finally give me back all the pencils he stole from my desk?” All of them laughed, but the old woman was still looking at Enjolras. Even the blond looked into her eyes and didn't know what to say. He didn’t believe in such things until he knew Jehan. He not only believed in these spiritual things, but also operated them. He had witnessed something several times that could not be explained logically, and Combeferre, otherwise interested in theories and proven facts, was as confused by his abilities as he was. “But what, Enjolras, would you like to know what the future has in store for you?” A colleague asked with a laugh as he wrapped his arms around his neck and Enjolras finally stopped staring at the old woman.

“No, thanks,” he said in a firm voice.

“Or how many women will go through your bed?” He pursed his lips and began to lean over.

But Enjolras dodged aside and just grunted, “I'd rather know if anyone loves me at all.”

“Oh, don't say you're a romantic!”

“I'm sure someone loves you, Enjolras,” his colleague said as she joined them. “Who couldn't love you?”

“I'm into girls, but I have to admit that you're probably the most beautiful guy I've ever seen.”

“That doesn’t sounds gay at all,” said the tallest of them sarcastically

“It didn't,” he said, sticking his tongue out at him and clinging to Enjolras again.

Without noticing this, they began to leave the old woman without saying goodbye to her. But all the way to the subway, the old woman watched them and noticed how red Enjolras's ears were. Apparently he didn't like to talk about love and relationships. The old woman looked at her cat, who waved her tail, and looked at her owner. She meowed and the old woman laughed. “So love, yes?”

Enjolras didn’t open the door of his apartment until three o'clock in the morning. He fell on the couch and sighed wearily. His stomach rumbled, the taste of wine still in his mouth. He knew he should eat, take a bath, brush his teeth, crawl into his duvets, set an alarm. “In a moment,” he whispered into the silence of the room, closing his eyes and falling asleep at the same moment.

When Enjolras woke up in the morning, the first he felt was an endless headache. He grunted and tried to turn to the other side of the couch so the light didn't shine in his eyes. Instead, he fell off the couch. He was expecting a big blow, perhaps a blow to the head on the table next to the sofa, or just an unpleasant pain after falling on the tiles; but none of that happened. Instead, he felt only a cold touch on his hands. And feet. It was a strange feeling, as if he were kneeling on his palms and soles. He blinked and opened his eyes. He freaked out. He could see too sharply, but he was sure it had been several months since he had said he had to buy glasses or contact lenses, because he was beginning to see a little like in a fog. He always forgot about it. But what fascinated him more were the two golden cat paws he saw in front of him.

_ What the fuck, _ he wanted to say, but only a faint sound came out of his mouth: “Meow?” Enjolras winced, looked up from the ground, and looked around. Everything looked bigger, sharper, as if he had suddenly appeared in a giant's house. He took a step forward. He felt his feet did the same. He turned his head and saw only golden fur and a bushy, white-and-gold tail strangely curled up instead of his feet.

_ What the fuck,  _ he wanted to say again, and it just said again, “Meow.” He ran into the hall, not noticing how strangely he was moving, he was low, and everything was, in a word,  _ huge _ . He ran to the large mirror next to his shoebox and looked at himself.

Instead of the frightened,  _ What the fuck is that?! _ , Only a loud cat noise was heard through the apartment, “Meow?!” A cat. A huge, golden, bushy cat with blue eyes. _ It's just a dream, it's just a dream, I’m fucking dreaming, _ he thought to himself, where he could still hear his human voice, but as soon as he opened his mouth -  _ his snout _ \- only another “Meow.” was heard.

Enjolras's heart began to beat and he began to look around in panic.  _ What should I do, what should I do, what should I do?! _ , He shouted at himself and received no answer. He wagged his tail from side to side. The paws didn't know whether to go right or left earlier, so he started running strangely from one corner to the other. He saw everything sharper, felt stronger, heard louder. Everything scared him and he didn't know what to do.  _ I have to wake up! _ , he shouted in his mind as he ran against the mirror and crashed into it. But instead of waking up, his head sounded again and he sighed unhappily - he  _ meowed _ .

After a few minutes, he stopped in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection.  _ Did anyone drug me? Maybe I just think I look like a cat, but I'm human _ , he told himself. He walked to the door, pulled his paw on the doorknob, and tried to open it. It didn't work. He did it a second time. Without success. The third, fourth, fifth… When he landed on his paws after eleven try, he sighed and looked at the door. It was certain that he would definitely not get out of the apartment by himself.  _ Maybe it's better that way _ , he told himself, still imagining how, instead of a cat, he lay on the ground and crawled like a snake.  _ That was definitely Lafayette! The bastard was in a very good mood and he was still hugging me. He must have poured something into my drink. _

Just the memory of drinking and eating a few selected, tasty canapés made his stomach churn. He went to the kitchen to get something to eat, but as soon as he reached the refrigerator, he realized it would definitely not work. The handle from the refrigerator door was a little higher than the door, so it was clear he wouldn't get into it. He sniffed. Did he smell something very aromatic and -  _ fast _ ? He frowned. Since when has food been fast? After all, only animals had such a property.

He's eyes widened as he ran to the corner of the kitchen counter, hit his head in the trash, which emptied and saw a mouse behind him. A small, agile mouse that had its paws smeared with moldy cheese.  _ Yuck _ !, He shouted, but only hiss came out from his muzzle. The mouse dropped a piece of cheese and ran into a hole between the tiles. Enjolras walked over to the hole and examined it. It must have been new. He never had a problem with mice.

_ Damn _ , he told himself, looking over his head. He saw only a large space separating the line from his head. If he crawled - as he still expected - he would have long ago hit himself. The line at the basket was low, and he actually had work to do to stretch his muscular arm. And now? He was there with his whole body.  _ How would I get there? _ , he asked himself and left the place. He examined him and went back into the hole. He repeated it like this several times. Unless my hand mysteriously shrunk, I guess I really really shook my head. Such stupidity wasn’t possible. He couldn't just turn into an animal. Such things didn’t happen at all.

He ran hysterically into the living room and began looking for his phone. He ignored the fact that he was a little faster and more agile than normal. When he found him, he tried to dial the phone number with his paws, but his soft fur didn’t turn on the display at all.  _ Damn _ , he cursed as he slammed his paw into the screen and made a long, deep scratch on it. Frightened, he looked at his paw and saw the sharp, white claws shining on him from the small, pink paws.

_ It's not possible, it's not possible, it's not possible _ , he kept telling himself and started running around the space. From side to side, behind the couch, under the couch, on the table, under the table, on the closet. As soon as he reached the windowsill, he felt a pleasant breeze. He looked to the side and found that he had left the balcony door open. He pushed them quickly and went outside. He jumped up in his chair, leaned his paws on the railing, and stared ahead. The sun was already setting, it was cloudy, and it seemed to start raining at any moment. Did he sleep all day? Didn't anyone try to contact him?  _ What the hell was going on _ , he thought.

“Hello, cat.” Enjolras winced and turned to the right, where he heard his neighbor's voice. She was leaning against the railing, wearing only a tight, white tank top and pink panties. A lighted cigarette between her fingers, the cork all colored from the red lipstick she had smeared all over her face. Enjolras didn't like her very much - she was noisy, she kept bringing new lovers home every weekend, and her apartment smelled of cigarettes unpleasantly. Enjolras, unlike many of French, really hated cigarettes. And especially when women were the one smoking. “Come here,” she said softly, reaching out to Enjolras. As soon as he got his fingers in front of his snout, he pulled away unhappily. It smelled even worse than normal - he could feel the musk of a man who, a few minutes ago, probably, satisfied and was rolling naked on the couch, and he didn't care that everyone on the street could see him. “Don't be such a pussy,” she laughed as she tried to reach Enjolras once more and stroked him. “I didn't know we had animals allowed. I'll probably get one too. Maybe a dog.”

_ God, especially not a dog, _ Enjolras protested and jumped on the railing, took a few steps back, and looked down. He lived on the third floor. It wasn't that high. But it was definitely not so low. If he jumped, he could break a few bones and ribs, but he would probably survive the fall. But a cat? They were said to have nine lives and almost always fell on all four legs.  _ Anyway, it's all just a very weird dream _ , he told himself, as he jumped down without further ado.

As soon as his paws detached from the railing, he began to regret it. He wanted to turn around and walk to the balcony again, hide in the apartment and never climb out again; but it was too late. He was falling and falling, and it seemed like an eternity.  _ The falls usually wake people from a dream,  _ he told himself at last as he turned his paws forward and landed on the sidewalk.

Instead of a sweet awakening, however, he only felt relief when he felt solid ground beneath him.  _ That was probably not possible _ , he began to panic and run again. He didn't notice people looking at him, meowing at him or trying to stop him. He ran to the road, avoiding cars, bicycles, people on scooters. He didn't notice swearing or sweet talk. He was just running.  _ What is happening, what is happening, what is happening _ , he repeated over and over, together with:  _ wake up, wake up, wake up _ .

His paws brought him to a familiar place - the Café Musain. He looked inside through the glass windows. As always, it was full on Thursday night. He heard the familiar noise and felt the warmth and all the sweets each customer enjoyed. “Oh my God.” Enjolras smelled the familiar scent — cherries, orange, and vanilla. But this time he felt something sweeter, something like honey and a little cinnamon, and also fresh, like morning dew. He turned and looked at himself, where Jehan immediately leaned over. “Where did you come from?” He asked him, as if he could understand him.

_ Jehan, Jehan, it's me! Enjolras!  _ He walked over to him, put his paws on his knee, and began meowing loudly at him.  _ Can you tell? Jehan! _

“God, you're loud,” Jehan laughed as he scratched his ears. Enjolras wanted to whine in protest several more times, but instead, he closed one eye and made a throaty sound that almost startled him. Purred. He  _ purred _ . He liked the way Jehan touched him. Enjolras had never felt so humiliated. “And cute,” he said before moving his fingers from his head to under his mouth, and Enjolras had to admit that his first thought was -  _ Don't stop _ .

“What do you have there?” Another familiar scent. After old books, aftershave and coffee. Enjolras opened his eyes, jumped off Jehan, and hurried to Combeferre. He rubbed his head against his leg, then his whole body, and as soon as Combeferre touched his tail, he turned and whimpered loudly at him. “Lost?” He knelt down and began stroking Enjolras's chin as Jehan had just done. He tilted his head slightly lower, looked at him, and then just said, “Male.”

“It probably belongs to someone,” Jehan said as he knelt beside Combeferre and stroked Enjolras on the back. Enjolras bent them, trying not to notice how pleasant it was for him.

“Why do you think?” The elder asked him.

“Look at that fur, it looks freshly washed and combed. He also has clipped claws and a little tail. Maine Coon cats' hairs grow terribly fast, so even if he was only on the street for a few days, it would be visible on him.”

“Maine Coons? Do you know the species?”

“Sure!” Jehan shouted proudly, puffing his chest. “I’m a cat lover!”

“Cat?!” Someone from the street corner shouted enthusiastically, and this time Enjolras whimpered unhappily. He was the first to feel an unpleasant gust of disinfectant and lemon. Joly sat down next to Jehan and immediately leaned over Enjolras. “He's beautiful!” He snatched it from both hands, took him in his arms, and pressed him to his chest. “So fluffy,” he said as he began to press his face to his head. Enjolras closed his eyes and whimpered unhappily again.  _ You’ll crush me _ , protested, and tried to get out of his grip. But it was too strong. Joly loved cats, that was a known fact. As -

“How can you, Joly!” Bossuet shouted as he approached them and covered his nose with a sweater. “You don't want to cuddle with me tonight?!” - Bossuet's allergy. All it took was a small hair and an unpleasant, biting rash all over his body. Once he managed to swallow a few hairs when he helped Musichetta's grandmother move a new sofa into her apartment and eat a toast, and they had to take him to the hospital as he swelled and couldn't breathe properly.

“But he's so cute,” Joly tried to apologize for his demeanor and pursed his lips cutely. Enjolras heard his heart pound. Probably enthusiastic. But he also felt that the scent around Bossuet - which at first was very strong and smelled of burnt wood - was suddenly a little lighter and smelled like a newly lit sparkler.  _ How does it all smell different? _ Enjolras wondered.  _ And how come it doesn't sound strange to me that I'm a cat and they cuddle with me?! _ He shouted to himself when he finally tossed from side to side in Joly's arms several times, and the younger one let him go with a disappointed look.

“What's going on here?” Asked the owner, who appeared in the doorway. He saw the boys start to gather in front of the door, and some customers began to squirm among themselves about it.

“You have a new customer!” Jehan shouted with a smile as he took Enjolras on his lap and stroked his smooth fur.

“Hardly, I won't let a cat in even if I have rats.” He was as dismissive of cats as Bossuet. It wasn’t the allergy, but the dislike of these hairy creatures that he had had since his wife divorced him and decided to devote all her time to cats instead of worrying about the children he had taken care of. And because of that he turned gray so quickly. “Whose is the?”

“We don't know,” Combeferre replied. “He was here when I arrived. He doesn't even have a mark.”

“Then put him in a shelter or throw him back on the street.”

“That's so cruel!” Joly said, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest. The owner just shrugged. He really didn't care.

Enjolras was about to come to him and tell him from the bottom of his heart how sorry he was for his behavior and he would very much like to hear an apology; when his nose felt a strong puff of cigarette smoke and wine. He hissed and Jehan jumped in fright. Grantaire joined their group, who had just thrown a freshly smoked cigarette into the canal. “Hey! Dinner!”

“Grantaire!” Jehan and Joly protested in unison.

"Sensitive," the brunette laughed as he approached them. "Bahorel won't be here today, he says he has something more important." He made a circle with one index finger and thumb, while he began to "penetrate" the circle with his index finger. "If you understand me," he laughed, raising an eyebrow.

"We all understand that, we aren’t five," said Jehan. "And stop it!" He tapped him.

"So I had to, what if Enjolras was here, right?" When Enjolras heard his name, he looked at Grantaire and hissed again. "Wow, some grumpy one." He knelt beside Jehan and tried to stroke him, but Enjolras immediately jumped off Jehan's lap and took a few steps aside. However, this brought him a little closer to Joly, who took advantage of the situation and pressed it to his chest again. Enjolras whimpered unhappily and hung his ears. “Weird one.” Grantaire said in an uncomfortable voice.

"He's had enough of us," Combeferre said.  _ No it is not true!  _ Enjolras shouted in his head. He began to writhe in Joly's arms again, until the younger one preferred to let him go this time and hurried to Combeferre. Paws placed him on his thigh and looked into his beautiful, hazel eyes. Combeferre laughed and stroked him several times. "Or not?"  _ No _ , Enjolras replied.  _ But take me home! I have to go home! _

"Shall we go inside?" Bossuet suggested. He still didn't like how much attention the cat was getting. He knew that for a while more and he would fall apart. "I'm quite cold."

"Doesn't love warm you?" Joly asked, almost insulted.

"But what about him?" Jehan asked.

"He definitely can't come in," the owner said before Jehan tried it on him with his familiar, canine eyes. "Come in already." He closed the door and the others watched him disappear behind the bar.

"Are we going?" Bossuet asked eagerly.

"Do you want to leave him here?" Jehan asked.

"What else? If it belongs to someone, he will find his way home. Come on,” he said, and went to the coffee shop to warm up a little.

"That's quite logical," Combeferre said, stroking Enjolras a few more times before laying him on the ground. Enjolras whimpered unhappily and tried to jump into Combeferre's lap again, but he was already up. "I'm sure the owner will start looking for you soon. Nobody wants to lose such a beautiful cat," he said as if he could understand him -  _ which he really could!  _ \- and added to Bossuet's cafe.

"Exactly as he said," Grantaire added, rising.

"But — but—," Joly and Jehan tried to protest, but no one heard them.

"Maybe he'll be fine," Jehan said as he helped Joly get up, and they both dreamyly looked at Enjolras, who was sitting on the sidewalk waving his tail. "I wonder where Enjolras is?" Jehan asked Joly as they entered the cafe together.

_ I'm right here!  _ Enjolras shouted at them, but of course no one heard him.

An hour later, the cafe door reopened and Enjolras's nose filled with familiar scents. He opened his eyes and looked at the door from which his friends were coming. He stood up and ran to them. "Yeah, he's still here!" Joly shouted excitedly, kneeling so he could caress Enjolras. Bossuet took a few steps back and snorted preventively.

"Isn't anyone still coming for him?" Jehan asked unhappily as he knelt beside Joly and joined his stroking of his soft fur.

"I guess its owner doesn't know he's lost yet," Combeferre thought aloud.

"Or someone kicked him out," Grantaire shrugged. Enjolras looked at him angrily and hissed again. "See, I wouldn't want a cat like that even if it was free."

"Then no one offers it to you," Joly said, pulling it closer to his body. "But me—"

"Don't even think about it!" Bossuet shouted, taking another step back. "Do you want to kill me?!"

"Of course not!" Joly replied just as loud. "But he would definitely like it at our home."

"Yeah, but it would be a home without me." Joly looked at Bossuet sadly. "That doesn't work on me anymore," he said truthfully, and Joly just sighed.

"I'm sorry, kitten," Joly said, stroking his head for the last time before joining his partner, who was still trying to persuade them to take the cat along the way.

"I can't take him home, the owner doesn't allow any animals," Jehan said unhappily.

"It's the same in college," Combeferre said, smiling sadly at Enjolras.  _ Can none of you really take me?  _ Enjolras asked, glancing at Grantaire, who was looking for something on his cell phone and didn't notice what was happening around him.  _ Typical, _ he told himself, letting himself be caressed by Jehan for the last time.

"But if he's here tomorrow, I'll take him with me! Or at least I'll take him to a shelter! "

"Sure, Jehan, come on," Combeferre said, slung his giant, long, warm coat over his shoulders.  _ Did they always smell so sweet?  _ Enjolras asked himself as he watched them intently and looked into their faces, which were slightly red. That it would be from the cold? No, this was something else. It smelled sweet and stuck to the skin.  _ God, Combeferre, tell him about your feelings and start dating already,  _ Enjolras said to himself in annoyance as he recognized the dreamy look of his closest friend. How long had it been since he first confessed to feeling something about this young poet? Half a year? Maybe longer? He remembered how red Combeferre was, but maybe he had the alcohol he had drunk before, and he had a few tears in his eyes, too, because he felt betrayed and confused by his feelings. Enjolras didn't know what to do, so he stroked his back only amicably a few times. He never loved anyone and never dated anyone, what he should say?

Enjolras blinked in confusion.  _ Wait, wait, wait _ . All the memories began to come back to him. Good night with colleagues, jokes and meeting the old woman. The old woman! Of course she was to blame! But what did Enjolras say? What he wanted, and she decided to do it to him in the strangest way.  _ Wait, do I admit it's a reality and not a dream? _ Enjolras asked himself and was surprised to find that the answer to that question was in the affirmative.  _ I'm crazy. _

When he finally stopped arguing with his conscience, he found that no one was in front of him. The familiar odors disappeared and were carried away by the rising wind. Enjolras looked at the sky. The sun had almost set, and somewhere in the distance he saw bits of the first night stars. But the sky was dark gray. He moved his nose. He felt damp. Rain was approaching.  _ What should I do now?  _ Enjolras thought. He couldn’t return home, he had no way. None of his friends took him home. He knew no one but anyone in Paris. His colleagues were really  _ just  _ business colleagues, he had no idea where they lived, where they met, and according to yesterday's words, they chose the wine bar completely at random, always going somewhere else. His parents lived in the south of Paris, where he had no way to go. And what would they do if a golden cat appeared in front of their doorstep and whimpered lostly? His mother would take him to a shelter, his father might give him some of his favorite bacon, but that would be the end of it. He would be behind bars and then he would be adopted by a family with an uneducated child who would pull him by the tail and he would cut him with a claw over time and they would throw him out on the street again.

The first drops of rain fell on his fur. He looked at the sky again and a few drops dripped into his eyes. He whimpered unhappily, took a few steps back until he slammed his ass against the wall at Café Musain. Everyone in the houses turned on the lights, which filled the sidewalks, giving the gray evening a warm touch. But it didn’t heat Enjolras at all. He curled up in a ball, covered his snout with his tail, and closed his eyes. The rain was escalating, and after a while his entire body was wet. Then an unpleasant wind added his power to the rain, which at first stung sharply, but after a while began to attack with freezing surges. He was getting cold.

Something tickled his nose. He raised his head in displeasure and sneezed. He had never heard him sneeze in such a high tone and shake his head so madly. “It was the cutest sneeze I've ever heard.” Enjolras finally understood what was tickling his nose. Grantair's scent. Or rather - a cigarette odor he hated. He wanted to hiss again to lure Grantaire away when he noticed it wasn't raining on him. He blinked in confusion and looked over his head. Grantaire held a black umbrella over him, letting the drops himself wet his leather jacket. “What's that look? Do you mind?” He asked with a laugh and knelt across from Enjolras. Now he could finally see his face. Enjolras tilted his head to the side. He thought Grantaire always had dark brown eyes, but they were dark blue? He couldn't think about it anymore, as Grantaire placed a canvas bag soaked between them. “Good that I took the cans,” he said to himself as he fished a can out of the bag and expertly opened it. Enjolras's ears and tail straightened immediately.  _ What smells so beautiful here?  _ “It’s yours,” the brunette said, placing an open can on the sidewalk. “Tuna.” Enjolras's stomach rumbled and he immediately threw himself at what he had put in front of him. He should find it disgusting, he had never eaten anything canned or instant in his life — Bahorel was making fun of him for never knowing the true taste of poor student life — but he couldn't get enough of that taste. He swallowed until he felt food jam in his throat. He was so hungry! "What's your name, anyway?" Grantaire asked, touching his neck to feel for a sign. Enjolras hissed dissatisfied, and Grantaire withdrew his hand to his body. "I'm sorry, I was hoping the owner would give you a stamp. I'd be sorry if you got lost and no one gave you back to me, you're really beautiful… well then, I will call you  _ Apollo _ . You remind me of one such  _ Apollo  _ in my life. Beautiful, inaccessible, but as you get closer to him, you'll find that he's actually cordial and terribly cute.”  _ Are you talking about me? _ , Enjolras asked, hearing him whine loudly. Instead of answering, Grantaire just laughed. “I will have to go home. Someone has been waiting for me there for a long time,” he said, checking his phone again. “So, will you come with me or would you rather freeze in the rain?” He opened his arms, and Enjolras had to admit that he hadn't even thought about the second option.

He finished the last of the canned juice and walked into Grantair's arms.  _ Strange _ , he thought as the brunette tossed the empty can into the trash and took Enjolras in his arms. _ It doesn't smell so bad anymore. _

They were only a few blocks away before reaching the door of an old apartment complex. Enjolras didn’t know this alley and still wondered how friendly everyone around him was. Grantaire was greeted from the windows from which they smoked or played guitar and sang. One gentleman was sitting right next to the entrance, soaked, holding a note and a pen. “Are you still looking for inspiration?” Grantaire asked, and the gentleman just nodded. “Then don't get pneumonia like last time.”  _ Artists _ , Enjolras thought, unable to logically explain why everyone had come to him like that -  _ strange _ .

“That's enough for you to come! I already thought you made fun of me!” Shouted the annoyed brunette, who was leaning against the door to Grantaire's apartment.

"I had something urgent, Montparnasse," he laughed, and without bothering to lay Enjolras on the ground, he walked over to him, leaned over him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Can you forgive me?”

“Only because you are my ex and I have a weakness for you,” the younger of them admitted dissatisfied. Enjolras looked at him all over. _ I've seen him somewhere _ , he thought, tilting his head to the side. At that moment, the brunette noticed him and chuckled. "Cat? Seriously?"

“Don’t judge me,” Grantaire said in an annoyed voice, and they entered the apartment together. Grantaire finally laid Enjolras on the ground and he looked around. He had never been to Grantaire's apartment before, in fact, never had the opportunity, to invite anyone to him. And he already understood why. The apartment was small for him too, he felt like he was brushing against everything, a piece of furniture or a piece of clothing at every turn. _ How can he live here?  _ Enjolras asked himself, remembering his spacious apartment. He had never lived in anything less than a five-room apartment.  _ Maybe I’m really spoiled _ , he admitted, remembering Bahorel's words. “Here,” Grantaire said as he opened the door to the room, which smelled of paint, paper, old canvas, and brushes. Enjolras never hoped to ever smell anything other than perfumes. But now, in this body, he recognized that each thing, person, and emotion, had its own special smell and taste. It scared him. But it also made him madly curious. _ What's in there? _

Enjolras slipped discreetly between their legs and looked into the room. Grantair's office. Five finished paintings stood on five stands. And on them - Enjolras meowed. “Do you like it?” Grantaire asked the cat, who stood in the middle of the room as if struck by lightning.

“Very much,” Montparnasse replied, thinking he asked him. “So you're selling them all?”

_ Selling?  _ Enjolras turned to Grantaire, who was smiling sadly and watching the biggest picture of them all. “Yes,” he admitted, exhaling in disappointment. “It's time for them to fulfill their purpose.”

“Great. I'll tell Brujon, he'll be excited. So tomorrow at six in Corinth, we'll go to drink. And no excuses!”

"Sure," the brunette said, accompanying his - Friend? Ex Boyfriend? Lover? - In front of the door. They talked for a while, and although they spoke softly, Enjolras heard everything but did not notice. Instead, he watched each of the paintings and felt as if he were looking in a mirror. His  _ true  _ mirror. In each picture he was depicted as - a satyr, a siren, an angel, a demon and God. He may have been a little different each time, the color of his skin on some lighter and on some darker, and his eyes on each image were different — green, navy blue, silver, red, and yellow — but he recognized features in his face, dark eyebrows, long lashes. even full lips. Did he really have them so full, pink and delicate in appearance?  _ How could Grantaire paint it? _ Enjolras asked himself. He knew Grantaire was painting, but he had never seen his work. In fact, he didn't even care, and Grantaire never bragged about them.

"Do you like it?" Grantaire asked as he returned to the room and found the cat still in the same position. He knelt beside him. "That's the Apollo I named you after."  _ So you really thought of me, _ Enjolras confirmed himself, and didn't want to admit that he was pleased that he was his  _ only  _ Apollo. "You would like it. Too bad you didn't see him today. You would definitely like him too. Your fur has the same color as his hair.” With that, he scratched his back and then stroked his tail gently. Enjolras spun contentedly. "It's strange he didn't come. I texted him, he didn't answer. I called him, he didn't answer. I'm a little worried if anything's happened to him.” Enjolras blinked and jerked. What was that strange smell he now smelled of Grantaire? He was strong, thick, and settled on his lungs. It wasn't pleasant, he wanted to run. "It's okay if he just ignores me, but lets him call someone else. When he didn't even tell Combeferre, I was really scared. They’re best friends. They're here to pick up their cell phones on their deathbeds, aren't they?” The smell was a little stronger, but this time Enjolras realized it wasn't something to be afraid of. It was a sign that Grantaire was sad. Frightened. He walked over to him and placed his paws on his knee. Grantaire looked at him and smiled, but Enjolras noticed a few tears trying to blink back into his eyes. "I’m not the best companion, Apollo. Certainly not today. And a few more days. Getting rid of those paintings was a pretty difficult decision for me, and I'm still not entirely sure, but there's no going back.”  _ Why are you selling them? You don’t like them?,  _ he tried to ask him, but of course only a meow came out of his mouth. "But they have to go to the world. Make rich people happy and I will finally eat once a month. In addition, I have to make room for new works. They can't still be here. They have to go. But… Damn, it's hard," he admitted, biting his lip. "I'm like Basil from The Picture of Dorian Gray. I put a lot of myself into them, a lot of my heart. And if Enjolras saw it, he would know what was really in them. My feelings, my love for him. Something I will never be able to have. And they have to go. Before anyone finds them.” Enjolras just murmured in confusion and came closer to Grantaire's chest with his snout, bouncing in the rhythm of a heart pounding. “My God, what am I doing, talking to a cat here," Grantaire laughed, taking him in his arms and taking him to the bathroom. "I have to take care of you!"

Grantaire then bathed the cat, wondering how good he was and didn't scratch him. He even let himself be scratched by a towel and purred contentedly. Grantaire then made strong coffee and prepared milk for Enjolras, but he refused.  _ Don't you know that adult cats are not supposed to drink milk?  _ With his nose raised, he went to rest on the couch, which Grantaire soon joined. He turned on the television, and Enjolras was surprised that he, too, turned on the news and listened to what had happened. Enjolras didn't want to admit that he had snuggled up to Grantaire.

The warmth, the scent that finally warmed wonderfully, and the full stomach assured him that he would soon close his eyes. Even before the warm feeling and Grantaire's fingers caressing his back carried him to the realm of dreams; the brunette said with a smile, “Thank you for listening to Apollo, I finally feel as if someone likes me.”

When Enjolras woke up in the morning, he felt an uncomfortable feeling in his shoulder that shot up his back. He tried to move his shoulder, but failed. He turned on his side and tried to touch his shoulder, feeling only pain in his face instead. He grunted, stood up, and began rubbing his entire face with his hands. "What the—" He didn't finish. When he heard his voice, he got to his feet and immediately ran to the hall where he expected to see the reflection in the mirror; but there was none. He was not in his apartment. This was Grantaire's apartment. "Damn," he said aloud, hearing him snore strangely. He looked at himself - he had the same clothes as yesterday when he returned home and fell asleep on the couch. However, the cell phone fell out of his pocket, so he couldn't even look at its reflection in the black display. He hurried out of the apartment, thanked God he hadn't locked Grantaire, and went out into the hallway.

As soon as the door slammed behind him, he leaned his back against the railing and began to look around - two hands, two legs. By touch, he wore no fur, no hair, no ears in his head, and no tail from his butt. He took a step forward, only his legs moving. He put his hands in front of him, only his hands moving. "My God, I'm normal!" He shouted excitedly as he reached for his chest with his hands.

"Enjolras?" The blond stopped examining and looked at the end of the corridor where Grantaire stood in surprise. "Hi, what are you doing here?" He asked, trying to sound as calm as possible. But Enjolras knew from his quick footsteps and strong smell that he was excited.

_ Scent. So it probably wouldn't go away so quickly _ , he told himself, turning to Grantaire. He took a breath to thank him for last night, but - how could he say that? It would sound so absurd! He himself did not understand what had happened and how he could explain it. I have to find the old woman, he decided. "I was around so I thought of going to see you."

"Really?" Grantaire asked, perhaps too enthusiastically, and cleared his throat quickly. "I'm glad. I'm sorry if I overwhelmed you with text messages yesterday, but seriously— "

"Don't apologize," Enjolras interrupted. "I should rather apologize. Maybe I overdid it a bit with alcohol yesterday and I needed to rest."

"You had a hangover, didn't you?" Grantaire asked with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

_ The biggest one _ , Enjolras thought, but instead just nodded.

"So if you want to recharge your energy after such a terrible day, I know a really great recipe for goulash that will put you back on your feet."

"I'd love to," Enjolras said too quickly this time, approaching the door.

"Good. Just one warning - I'm not tidy, there are secret things in the room where I create - it stinks a lot, it's not for your sensitive nose, so don’t go there - and I also brought a new tenant home yesterday."

_ I'm right here, you idiot, _ Enjolras told himself, smiled, and said before they entered the apartment, "I'm curious."


	16. Intrepid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each of us is afraid of something. Whether it's the slightest fear that makes us a little nervous, or a strong phobia that keeps us from functioning normally. When I make up stories or just the plots themselves, I always try to get as close as possible to the characters. And so, even in the case of fanfiction, I think not only about what they like, what they want to achieve or what their favorite food is; but also what they fear most, what is their worst memory or what smell they hate. And today, while coming up with another story, I decided to "get closer" to Enjolras like this and lent him one of my fears, for which I earned the question from a lot of people - “It’s possible to be scared of this?”. From personal experience - well, yes, if I'm afraid of it. :D
> 
> What about you? What is your fear that others may not be able to understand so easily?

Grantaire came out of the elevator, greeted the lady who was entering the apartment with her dog, with whom she had returned from a walk, and reached the end of the corridor, where he knocked on the familiar door number 26. Within a moment, Enjolras appeared between the doors. He was still wearing the clothes he had at the  _ Les Ámis  _ meeting. He removed the glasses he wore primarily for reading from his nose and raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?" He asked.

Grantaire raised his hand and pointed to a canvas bag with several tangled papers protruding. "Your order, sir."

"Oh, already?" He asked in surprise, swerving to the side so he could go inside. "You didn't have to come here, you could have brought it to the next meeting," he told him as he took his leather jacket from him and hung it in the closet.

"I finished it at school, so I thought I'd stop by when I had it with me."

"Okay then…" They both reached the living room, Grantaire sat down on the couch and sprawled as if he were at his home. "Can I get you something?"

"Hot chocolate would be great, it’s freezing outside." Enjolras just nodded and went to the kitchen. Grantaire reached for his bag and began unpacking all the designs he had prepared for the blonde. He laid them on the table and examined them closely. It wasn't his best work, but he knew their  _ leader  _ would be happy with it anyway.

As the sounds of thunder grumbled outside and the wind leaned against the windows for the first time, until they creaked loudly, Enjolras entered the room with two cups of hot chocolate. One lay on the table in front of Grantaire and he sat down with the other in a comfortable chair across from him. "It looks good," the blond said as he sipped from the cup and examined the papers on the table with his eyes. "I had no idea that Bahorel's slogan would look so good in the end." At the paper was Eiffel tower in flames with words across it saying:  _ You burn our Paris, we burn your asses.  _ The slogan was written in beautiful, neat lettering and rendered in blue. It seemed strange, but that's why it impressed both of them the most.

"He's an asshole, but sometimes he has good ideas," Grantaire laughed as he picked up the paper and began examining it. "People will be as confused as we were when he first said that."

"Um," Enjolras growled, placing the mug on the table and pointing to the largest paper on the table. "But I probably like this one the most." Dark silhouettes of men were drawn on paper with colored hearts — red, pink, or gold — depicted hearts. Above them was the slogan:  _ Our homeland for our families. _ It sounded kitschy, a little awkward, and more like propaganda; but the delicate composition of colors, the neat writing, and the warm feeling in his heart that Enjolras felt as he looked at the poster, made him smile.

"Jehan also likes it. I understand, he’s a romantic and a poet. But you?” The brunette laughed and finally drank from his mug. The chocolate was very hot, and a little too sweet for him. Still, after drinking, he smiled and added, "I can make a maximum of fifty copies. The school printer will not give more. And I don't have the money for a large print."

"I'll take care of that anyway," Enjolras said as he reached for the poster and got up with it. He placed it on the shelf next to the line with photos. Among them is one of the Christmas celebrations they held with their friends in the Café Musain. Every time Grantaire saw it, he smiled. It was nice to know that Enjolras, despite the cold tone of his voice and stony face, was still really just a man who could be as sentimental as the others.

There was another creak. Grantaire got up and walked to the window. Outside, only lamps shone, which, like trees, swayed in gusts of wind. Neither the moon nor the stars could be seen behind the dark clouds. From a distance he heard a soft thunder, apparently a storm was approaching. A few drops of rain predicted this, which began to fall slowly on the window ledge and glass.

Grantaire turned and looked at Enjolras, who was standing at the table, looking at the posters. But Grantaire recognized that his gaze was absent. He was thinking of something else. He tapped the cup in his palms with his fingers and tapped discreetly from one foot to the other. The brunette just sighed.  _ If you weren't so stubborn, everything would be easier _ , he thought, before he smiled broadly and asked, "Look, on the way I stopped at my favorite video game room and the owner gave me a new game to try. But I don't have a playstation like you, so I have no way to try. But he said that it could be played in two, so I thought— "

"I'd love to," Enjolras said, perhaps too quickly, as he set the cup on the table and walked over to the television so he could plug in the playstation.

Two hours and a few swear words later, they both paused the game and went to the kitchen, where Enjolras began examining the insides of his refrigerator so they could have something to eat. In the end, they ended up ordering a pizza, where they argued for a good half hour whether the pineapple belonged to the pizza or not (Enjolras said no and Grantaire said yes). In the end, they decided to order garlic and mushrooms to avoid further, completely stupid quarrels.

It was a little after ten in the evening, and Enjolras examined the clock above the refrigerator at any moment, wondering how unobtrusively he should ask the brunette if he would like to sleep here today. The wind was getting louder outside, it had been raining for half an hour, and sometimes there was an unpleasant blow of thunder. At every moment he wondered if the fuses would blow and if he should rather go check them. "I guess I should go now, huh?" Grantaire asked, noticing how he'd looked at the clock on the wall several times. He knew he didn't do it to kick him out. They had been in this situation several times before, and he knew that Enjolras wanted someone in the apartment with him. But that gave Grantaire the opportunity to tease him a little at times.

"Don't be silly. We just ordered a pizza. "

"You'll eat it yourself."

"I'm not going to pay for it alone."

"I don't know which of us is rich."

"Shut up, Grantaire." Enjolras finished his chocolate and placed an empty mug in the sink. "Shall we return to our game?"

"Can't you wait for me to beat you again, Apollo?"

"Only in your dreams."

An hour later, a car rang at Enjolras's door. He gave the young boy a big tip and apologized for having to go to them in such bad weather. When he reached the living room with the pizza, he laid it on the table, and they both sat on the couch, turned off the game, and watched a movie. This time it went without quarrels. After five years of knowing each other, they found few things they had in common. And fortunately, among them was the genre of movies - action thrillers.

When each of them already had two pieces of pizza in them and in the film the main character had just been captured by the minions of the villain, a light fell out in the apartment. Enjolras winced, sighed, and looked to the side, as if expecting someone to stand by the light switch, laughing that it was just fun. The television was still playing, but only the fuses to illuminate the apartment seemed to go out. "Here too!" Enjolras's neighbor shouted in front of the wall of the same room so that the blond wouldn't have to go to him. He always asked everyone in the hallway if it had happened to them. "I'll go check what happened!" He shouted again, and someone from the next apartment thanked him.

But Enjolras was still sitting, watching the movie in front of him and saying nothing. But Grantaire saw that he hadn't kept focus for a long time. He kept blinking and his chest rising too fast. A vein jumped out of his neck again, beating at the rhythm of his heart. Grantaire approached him, rubbed his shoulder and thigh inconspicuously, and sighed, "But this guy is an idiot, I wouldn't wait and kill everyone right away!" He shouted and leaned to pick up another piece of pizza. Enjolras knew what he was doing - trying to distract him so he wouldn't think about how dark and the wind behind the windows.

"It's called a heroic nature," the younger countered, smiling.

An hour later, when the wind was finally down outside and it was raining lightly, the bell rang. Enjolras opened it to his neighbor, who informed him that the lights should be turned on in a few hours. It rained down on the main unit, so they waited for an electrician to fix it. Enjolras thanked him and returned to Grantaire. "It'll be another movie then," the younger said as he sat down next to him again. This time as close as before.

"Sure," the brunette agreed as he felt his warmth on his thigh and side. "I'd love to."

The boring comedy about the wedding patalia didn’t play for more than ten minutes, and Grantaire felt Enjolras's head on his shoulder. He turned to look into his face through his thick curls and smiled. Enjolras was breathing deeply, and from the satisfied look on his face, he must have dreamt about something nice. Grantaire reached for a blanket draped over the backrest and covered Enjolras. He squeezed inconspicuously on him to feel his warmth even more, and sighed. "You're such an idiot. If you said it normally, I would always be here with you. This is unnecessary for both of us," he whispered as he leaned boldly over his forehead and kissed him. Immediately, he pulled away from him and laid his head on his. He couldn’t touch him without his knowledge. He sensed that Enjolras knew why his forehead always itched so strangely — the way he scratched his forehead awkwardly with his beard — but they both acted as if they didn't understand.

It all started a year ago. After one meeting, Bahorel asked if he could sleep for a few days at someone else's apartment. The explanation was simple - bed bugs had multiplied in their apartment complex, and when it seemed that Bahorel's apartment hadn’t been attacked by the little creatures, he refused to enter the complex until the caretaker confirmed that they had all been eradicated. " _ No one will get me into that apartment for a long time _ !" He shouted, fidgeting at any mention of what they looked like. " _ Stop it, I have goosebumps because of you. It's disgusting! Aren't you afraid of those little bastards? Everyone is afraid of something _ !”

And so that night, over glasses of wine, each of them admitted what their greatest fear was. Feuilly was afraid of snakes. He could never really explain it, but their slimy bodies and long tongues terrified him. All he had to do was see one in the photo and get goosebumps. Jehan feared the sea. When he was first taken on holiday to Spain as a five-year-old child, he ran away from his mother, who was building sand castles with him, and scattered into the waves. The first one sweeped him under it and carried him a few meters away. If his father hadn't caught him then, he would have drowned. Everyone knew Joly was most afraid of illness. But he was most terrified of intestinal viruses, so he despised any raw meat. Each time he received a piece of bloody meat on a plate, his stomach heaved and he wanted to run. Bossuet didn’t disappoint, as always, and everyone wondered at his fear how absurd it seemed. He was afraid of icicles. Every time he walked under the roof and saw ice thorns sticking out of it, he didn't want to go under them. He always saw them fall on him and stab him in the eye. Everyone had to promise Courfeyrac that they wouln’t laugh at him, but still, as soon as he said in self-denial that he was afraid of parrots, everyone couldn’t help but smile. Angrily, he began to tell them how, once he was eleven, one such screaming, stupid parrot attacked him at the zoo, and he had a scratched face for several months. Combeferre acknowledged that he had never been afraid of anything material, and that his greatest fear was of failure and that people wouldn’t like him, for which he earned a great, warm hug from all. Grantaire complained that he had nothing to say now that he was afraid of the same thing, but added that he had always had respect for everything related to the supernatural and the spirits. That's why he turned down any movie nights where horror movies were played.

When everyone focused on Enjolras, who had been thinking for a long time, the answer was just, "Maybe… bad grades?" He always ran everything he did without fear. He wasn’t afraid of anything, any one, and in fact he seemed to be the scariest thing of his life. Joly didn't want to believe him for a long time, and he and Bossuet agreed to scare the blonde with all sorts of fabrications. They haunted him with their fabrications for two long months, until they admitted that Enjolras was right. There was simply nothing to scare him with. They never returned to the subject.

Until Enjolras' mother arrived in Paris. Grantaire met Enjolras and his mother in the park, and for a moment he wondered if he should disturb them at all when he saw a blonde who greeted him from a distance and introduced his mother to him. " _ Nice to meet you _ ," Grantaire said, almost out of breath. He already understood who Enjolras was so beautiful after. His mother looked like a fallen angel, and even though she was fifty years old, she still didn't have a single wrinkle on her body. She looked more like his older sister.

“ _ I just wanted to go with Alexander _ —" Grantaire almost forgot Enjolras first name. "— _ For coffee to the patisserie. Won't you like to join _ ?”

" _ I'd love to _ ," the brunette replied, noticing that Enjolras had no problem with that and just shrugged. They settled in the front yard, and Alice — a beautiful name for a beautiful woman — talked to Grantaire about art the whole time. Enjolras didn't mind, drinking his favorite coffee in peace and enjoying the sweet, carrot cake that was famous in the area.

But when the wind began to rise half an hour later, the sky clouded and it looked like it should rain at any moment, Enjolras decided it was time to go. He apologized, went to pay, and left his mother and Grantaire alone for a while. " _ Oh, he's still like a little boy, he's still scared _ ."

" _ Scared _ ?" Grantaire asked in surprise.

" _Did he never tell you that? Oh, but why do I wonder! Alexander always kept everything to himself. He was solitary and secretive since childhood. At the same time, if he admitted it, it would all be easier for him._ ” Grantaire moved a little closer to Alice, and she smiled heartily at him. " _You know, when Alexander was six years old, I was sick. I had severe pneumonia. We lived in the village, and we didn't have that much money yet, so instead of in the hospital, I was treated at home. My dear husband tried to make everything that was in his power. He cooked, went for medicine, looked for herbalists and charlatans to cure me when we didn't have the money for real doctors. But one of his friends recommended a doctor who had his heart in the right place and wrote him medication for me, which he also paid for, and offered to examine me. Excited, he left for the city to pick him up, and Alexander and I were left alone. And that's where the biggest storm of our lives came. The fuses went out, thundered, flashed, instead of rain, I thought someone was throwing rocks at our windows. But once it blew so hard that a window opened in my bedroom. I wanted to close it, but I had a fever, I was weak and I quickly felt sick. I passed out and then only my husband told me what was happening next. Alexander heard me fall and the blow frightened him. He ran after me and when he saw me lying on the ground, motionless, almost out of breath, he began to fear. He wanted to wake me up, but he couldn't. The storm was stronger, as was the wind, which_ _began to open by force all the old windows in the house. A cold wind leaned against him, and he screamed, cried, and tried to get me to bed. Then, suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck a tree near our garden, which fell and fell directly to where I had originally been lying. He tore open the roof and hit the floor of my bedroom. If Alexander hadn't pulled me to the bed with all his might then, I would have been dead. He had such a strength for a child. But maybe he was just encouraged by adrenaline. During this time, my husband got home with the doctor who took care of me. The husband took care of Alexander, reassured him, but it gave him a lot of work. He was soothed by the hot chocolate and the warm blanket in which he hugged him until he fell asleep._ ”

Grantaire listened with bated breath. But suddenly everything began to make sense. Enjolras wasn’t really afraid of anything, nothing that could be seen as easily as Bahorel's strange fear of bugs or Courfeyrac's hatred of parrots. It was small fragments of Enjolras's behavior that suddenly began to fit together. For example, how every time the wind was strong, he checked that all the windows were closed properly. For example, when the wind leaned against the windows and he looked toward the window for a second, gritted his teeth, and continued his speech as if nothing had happened. For example, every time there was a news of storms, strong winds or bad weather in the forecast for the next day, Enjolras offered to organize a movie, a night's sleep in his apartment. " _ Enjolras… Is afraid of the wind? _ "

" _ Strong wind _ ," Alice corrected him.  _ "It simply came to our notice then. No one would expect that from such a strong, proud man. Please don't tell him I told you _ — "Grantaire wanted to promise her that he definitely had no plans to tell him when Alice leaned over and whispered," — _ Watch him, but please be careful and sometimes when there’s change, do not leave him alone. Any of you. He needs someone even when he likes to play a hero role _ . ”Before he could ask her anything else, Enjolras returned to their table, and they both said goodbye to Grantaire.

From then on, Grantaire began to perceive every change in Enjolras' behavior that occurred each time the wind picked up. It was the first fall in which he knew what really terrified Enjolras, and he was still thinking about how the blonde had handled it until then. Although he still looked as inaccessible as ever, Grantaire noticed his eyes still watching the windows, his feet tapping uncomfortably on the floor, and he was sweating more, his cheeks and ear tips reddening. He knew that if he tried to talk to him about it, he would deny everything. And so he came up with one solution - he was even more annoying than before. Each time he saw Enjolras' nervousness begin to rise, he came to him and began to argue with him, talk to him, want something from him, or needed to go to his apartment immediately so he could watch another episode of the series that only played on paid channels. And Enjolras, who until then had almost nothing to do with Grantaire, always succumbed to his tactics.

It wasn't even different today.

Grantaire didn't even remember falling asleep. He was awakened by the pleasant smell of just boiled eggs, hot coffee, and the rays stroking his face. When he opened his eyes, the breakfast Enjolras had prepared for him a few minutes ago lay on the table in front of the sofa. He sat down on the sofa and found Enjolras covering him with his favorite warm, yellow blanket. Next to the coffee mug lay a small piece of paper on which was written by Enjolras' hand:  _ Thank you _ . Grantaire smiled, tucked the paper in his trouser pocket, and began to eat.

This autumn was very cold and windy. He knew it wasn’t the last day of this year that he could enjoy breakfast at Enjolras’ apartment.


	17. Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was writing todays chapter, I sometimes wanted to be a little kitten too. And I believe you’ll understand why. :)

Autumn has come in full force. The sky was still gray, clouds full of rain were floating everywhere, the sun was no longer rising. A light but frosty wind was blowing. The temperature dropped and scratched the skin. In the morning and evening, people smoked from their mouths. Therefore, it was normal for people to dress warmer. It was no different at the  _ Les Ámis _ meeting, when a week ago they wore their favorite summer outfits and today they showed their collection of old sweaters.

Enjolras sat on the edge of the table in the middle of the room, talking to all his friends. He explained to them his new proposals to change the building code and promised them that thanks to his contacts with Dr. Lamarque, who worked closely with parliament, they could indeed change something and should pay more attention to this issue; but to know that most of them didn’t listen to him. Even Combeferre, his closest friend and one of the main brains of their group, looked absent today and was still looking at Enjolras. The looks they gave him made the blonde nervous. When he finished, he waited for their reactions. Instead, they gave him even more intense glances and silence. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said as he became uncomfortable and left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Courfeyrac slammed into the table and said aloud, "It's clear. He has a problem!” Everyone just nodded. "I was hoping, I really thought… he… never…"

"That's why," Jehan said softly as he stroked his shoulder. "Those who are struggling the most don't look like it."

“But Enjolras? Really?” He asked himself, sighing unhappily. All the friends sat down at the same table and began to think about how they should talk to Enjolras. They were so preoccupied with how simple and sensitive they would approach Enjolras that they didn’t notice that Grantaire had disappeared from the room.

He hurried out into the hall, ran to the men's room, and opened the door. Enjolras stood at the sink, washing his hands, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Grantaire would normally melt how his eyes and hair shine even brighter in the black turtleneck; but instead his gaze went a little lower, to his hands and palms, which he washed with soap, and something in him snapped.

He clenched his fists, his teeth creaking against each other, and he felt blood begin to boil inside him. "Enjolras!" He shouted, and the blond jumped. He looked in surprise at the door where Grantaire stood. He closed the door and walked closer to the blond. "Can you explain to me what you're doing?"

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, then blinked slowly and replied, "Washing my hands."

"I don’t mean that! I mean, can you explain to me what you're doing? ”

"I don't understand," Enjolras said this time, reaching for the paper napkins that lay on the shelf by Grantaire's shoulder.

As soon as Grantaire saw his approaching hand, he looked at his wrists and fingers and growled unhappily. He grabbed his palm and pulled him closer. Enjolras jerked forward, and if he didn't grab the sink with his other hand, he would hit Grantaire's chest. "I'm talking about this!" He shouted again. "This!" His fingers began to touch the deep wound that ran from his thumb to his wrist.

"I wasn't paying attention and hurt myself," he said simply, trying to free his hand from his grip.

But Grantaire didn’t allow it. He squeezed him harder and frowned. "You simply won't get rid of me like that. I don't believe a word you say! You don't have this from an accident. Accidents don't look like this. Tell me what you're doing! ”

"Grantaire—"

"No!" Grantaire shouted, approaching Enjolras until their noses almost touched. Enjolras could smell wine and an orange cake on his breath. He tried to pull away from him. Without blinking, he stared at him and said sternly, "I understand I'm not the one you want to talk to. But listen to me! I am worried about you! Just like the others! ”

"What, please?" Enjolras asked, confused, raising an eyebrow.

"We've seen for a while that there's something wrong with you. Like you're still somewhere else inside your mind. You disappear right after the meeting and you don't want to say where. You reject all joint actions. You're just talking about school and work, nothing else. And now this… You started wearing long sleeves. You never wore it. Even in the harshest winter. When you first came with the turtleneck on you, it was weird, but we didn't comment on it, we said to ourselves -  _ Look, maybe he wants to try something new too _ . But then we noticed. Those scratches and scars that just look weird. Too sleek, too straight, too  _ perfect _ .” Grantaire took a deep breath. His fingers began to touch the freshest scratch on his hand. It still smelled faintly of blood. "Enjolras, if you have a problem, we will solve it. You can tell us everything. Do you know it? We are your friends! It is clear to me that you will not want to deal with me. But Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Feuilly are here for you. Always. Like you for them. Then you can tell them something. You don't have to deal with it… no… no… Like  _ that _ !” He jerked his hand and placed his own wrist right in front of his face.

Enjolras studied him for a moment, frowning, not understanding. But after a few seconds, he widened his eyes strangely and began blinking furiously. “Wait,” he whispered, almost out of breath. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said to his nature too quickly. He looked back into Grantaire's eyes and frowned. “Do you think I'm hurting myself?”

“We do not think so. We can  _ see  _ it, Enjolras!” With that, he squeezed his hand once more to alert him that he had seen the wound on his wrist.

"See -  _ this _ ," said Enjolras, pointing to his hand, which was strewn with several fresh bruises. "And the first thing that occurred to you was that I was hurting myself."

"What else?" Grantaire asked breathlessly, releasing him and taking a step back. He ran his hand through his restless, black hair and took a deep breath. He was nervous. "What else could it be, Enjolras?"

"You see me with  _ this _ ," Enjolras said again, examining his hands. "And the first thing that comes to your mind is that I'm hurting myself," he repeated. Before Grantaire could react again, Enjolras shook his head and snorted. "You're really incredible idiots."

"What?" Grantaire asked crookedly, frowning. "We're just worried about you, and are you still insulting us? Okay, Enjolras, if I bother you so much, please. I get it. But at least talk to someone else. Because this is not— "

"Enough," Enjolras said in a stern voice, and the brunette listened immediately. He wanted to say something else from his heart, but he couldn't. Enjolras's order had the same effect on him as on a soldier who obeyed his general and would be able to leave for him on a suicide mission. It said a lot about their relationship. "Come with me." He didn't wait for an answer, walked around him, and walked out the door.

Grantaire didn't even think and listened. He left the toilets, took his leather jacket from the hanger next to the door that led to the room where their friends were waiting for them, and followed Enjolras, who was waiting at the main door of Café Musain in his bright, red coat with a black bag slung over his shoulder, which he now carried daily and always left with the owner.  _ What is he hiding in it? _ , they asked each other several times when Enjolrase went somewhere with her.

He walked over to him, didn't even have time to say goodbye to the waitress, and followed Enjolras out. The blond walked a good three steps in front of him and said nothing. He walked fast, perhaps because a cold wind was leaning against them and he wanted to be somewhere warm again soon. They came to the end of the street, where stood an old, dilapidated house, in front of which was a red ribbon with a large sign:  _ No entry _ . Enjolras ignored it, picked up the tape, and entered the property. He turned to Grantaire and motioned for him to follow him. Together they came to the opening that had previously been used to close the door. The old pub, which had been dilapidated for several years, finally got a new owner who decided on a single clever move - the building was to go down in two months. Until then, he made sure that no homeless or other unwelcome guests hid inside it.

Enjolras went up the old stairs to the first floor and came to where the chest of drawers stood. Unlike everything, it looked new, as if someone were polishing and cleaning it daily. He stopped in front of it and waited for Grantaire to reach him. The brunette smiled and said, "Look, if you want to kick me out of the group for my stupid bullshit, just do it in front of Musain. We didn't have to drag me here.” Enjolras ignored his words, knelt in front of the chest of drawers, and opened it. "My God!" Cried Grantaire. But this time with surprise and sincere interest. He knelt beside Enjolras and looked inside the chest of drawers. "What are they doing here?" Inside the chest of drawers were two soft pillows, a yellow blanket, and two bowls — one with fresh water and the other with sprinkled granules. Everything was here for the furry inhabitants - a big, red-haired cat and her eight little kittens. “They’re cute!”

"Yes, but they—" Grantaire reached for the smallest kitten, who was resting contentedly on the pillow. It was as red as his mother's. When she smelled a strange smell, she opened her eyes and looked at the hand that was reaching for her. She hissed unhappily and slashed at Grantaire with her paw. Even though she was still a small kitten, her claws were already pretty sharp. Grantaire whimpered in pain and pulled his hand back to his body. He had a small scratch on his palm that wasn't deep enough to bleed, but it began to sting uncomfortably. "—Scraping," Enjolras said, opening the black bag. He pulled out a plaster and handed it to Grantaire.

"Thanks," he said as he took it and sealed the wound. "Little bastards ." As if their mother understood his words, she whimpered unhappily.

"That's not true," Enjolras countered as he pulled two cans of cat food from his bag. He opened them and placed them next to the granules. Most of the kittens immediately rushed at them, and only the spinning and swallowing sounds could be heard. Two little kittens - both white, one with a patch on the buttocks and the other on the right, front paw - became interested in Enjolras instead of eating, they touched his palm with their snouts, and Enjolras immediately took them in his arms. They both stepped on his chest with their paws, making the cutest sounds they had ever heard.

Grantaire wanted to say something, but he couldn't take his eyes off Enjolras. His stony face suddenly turned down, his eyes lit up with flames he didn't know, and his mouth formed into a faint smile. He looked at the kittens as his own children. "Wow," he whispered, but Enjolras could still hear him. He looked up from the kittens and looked at Grantair, who felt blood rush to his face. "W-well, I wasn't expecting this," he said immediately to mask his excited exhalation. "How long have you known about them?"

"Two months."

Grantaire looked back at the cat family and said, "Exactly so long—"

"—What I wear in long sleeves to cover my wounds."

"Which are not from self-harm."

"Which are not from self-harm," Enjolras repeated after him, and they both just nodded. "I wouldn't expect it to be the first thing that comes to mind. It's nice that you were worried about me, but I never thought you'd think I'd be able to do that. "

"Suggest that you're too strong for that?" Grantaire asked, a little startled. His heart began to beat a little faster and he felt a twitch in his hand. When he was younger and first experienced depression at the age of twelve, back then he—

"Because I'm afraid of knives and razor blades, I only have a few to razors for shaving, I would never use them for anything else. Definitely not to hurt myself.” _ Oh, that’s right, _ Grantaire thought.  _ Enjolras' fear of knives and sharp tools _ . It was a well-known fact that Enjolras didn’t resist, and he preferred to avoid any possibility of getting any closer to everything sharp. When he was small and guarded by his grandfather, he climbed into the closet, where he had military knives on display and accidentally pulled them all down on him. Fortunately, only one cut him, weakly and into the thigh. Although he was left with an ugly scar, which he could easily hide, but since then he always respected knives.

Grantaire needed to change the subject as soon as possible. "So you got it from playing with them?"

"Now yes. But before that, it was from how their mother defended them. She was afraid I wanted to hurt them. When I first took them to the vet for a check-up, she even scratched my face. She didn't spare me at all,” he laughed at the memory and put the kittens back on the pillow so they could eat. "But now everything is fine, she knows I have no plans to hurt anyone."

Grantaire noticed one white-red kitten watching him, and as soon as it meowed, Grantaire took him in his arms. It was soft and tiny. "What are your plans for them? You probably won't take them all home."

"Half a month and they will be able to get adopted. Now they still need their mother. So I decided that as soon as they could, I would take them to a shelter. "

Grantaire was playing with the kitten for a moment when he suddenly excitedly asked, "And how about giving them to the most loyal friends of  _ Les Ámis _ ?"

"What?" Enjolras asked, confused as he reached for the big cat and scratched her ears.

"Well, there are eight kittens, just like us. We could each take one. ”

"I don't think Bossuet will be thrilled with his allergy.”

"That's what Joly will handle."

"Combeferre lives on campus, they can't take animals there."

"As soon as you see how cute he is, he will let him have one."

"Bahorel doesn't come to me as an animal lover."

“You haven't seen his board on Pinterest! It's completely filled with those little bastards. Look, he looks like a tough guy, but like most guys like that, he's really just a gentle giant who has a weakness for everything that's cute. And those little balls are cute!” With that, he leaned over the kitten and kissed her head. The kitten whimpered and settled more at his chest. "And I'll probably take this, it's amazing."

"Inessa is the biggest cuddler."

"Inessa? That's nice — Oh my God, Enjolras, don't say you named her after Inessa Armand.”

"Maybe," Enjolras admitted.

"Don't worry about it kittens, we'll give you to good owners, and none of you will be named revolutionaries anymore."

"They're nice names and they have good meaning," Enjolras said, a little annoyed.

"I'd argue, but I don't want to be mean." Grantaire put the kitten back in place next to her mother, who immediately began licking her. "Come and tell the boys. They will be excited. And finally they will stop worrying about you! Damn, that's how to completely confuse us. You should then pay us a one round of shots at the bar for this."

"I will think about it."

"I think as soon as you say there are kittens somewhere, Jehan won't talk about anything else for half a year." He got up, said cheerfully, "Let's go!"

Enjolras waited for a moment, and when he knew Grantaire was far enough away not to hear him, he leaned over the adult cat, scratched her ears, and kissed her head. "Don't worry. I'll take you Patria.”


	18. Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fanfic, I had a note written: "Something like when parents take a child on a trip." It says a lot about today's topic.

Enjolras forgot his dissertation notes at Café Musain. Meetings of  _ Les Ámis _ always started at three o'clock in the afternoon, so when he entered the cafe after dark, he hardly recognized it there. There were no customers at the tables he knew. The waitresses had already changed shifts, and he vaguely remembered that the one with the red lipstick and the unpleasant expression was called Éponine. He walked to the door to the back room, where their group was meeting, and wanted to open it when he noticed that a light was still visible from behind the door and he heard a low voice. Only by the soft sound he could determine who it belonged to. He smiled and opened the door.

In the middle of the room sat their youngest member, still having unfinished bitter tea in front of him, smearing a chocolate icing on a plate with a spoon. He had a cell phone attached to his ear and quietly answered questions Enjolras hadn’t heard: "No, really, nothing is happening. Get well soon. Of course. I'll come on Friday. I'm sure nothing will jump in, Pierre. I'll look forward to it.” He ended the call, set the phone on the table next to the plate, and sighed deeply. His face twisted with sadness, and with a spoon he began to make strange wheels on his plate.

"Is there something wrong?"

The question frightened Jehan and he looked across him. He jumped in his chair, and as soon as his dark blue — Enjolras thought they were purple several times — his eyes saw one of his close friends, he breathed and smiled. "You scared me!" He rebuked him and put his hand on his chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I forgot something here," he said, walking to a table with his notes. "What about you?"

"I wanted some dessert before I went home."

"Ah." Enjolras turned to Jehan and noticed that even though his face was relaxed and smiling, he still had  _ something  _ in his eyes that he didn't like. "Is something wrong?" Jehan made a sound that he didn't understand. "I heard you called someone..." He didn't finish, not knowing how to indicate that he wondered why he had such a sad face after the conversation. He found it very intrusive.

Jehan smiled broadly at him and just shook his head. "That was Pierre, my friend. We were supposed to go tomorrow on a haunted pilgrimage that leaves on Tuesday. I have only one day off, so I wanted to go there and I didn't want to go alone. So I asked him if he would go, but he was at the weekend with his parents, who had just recovered from the flu and - you know. Viruses will find their way. So he lies at home and heals. So I'm just a little sad. I don't like going just by myself," he admitted and finished his tea.

"I will go with you."

"What?" Jehan asked in surprise.

Enjolras took a few steps forward and stood right next to Jehan. "I'll go with you," he repeated. "I'm not going to work tomorrow, so I'll have the afternoon off, and since I don't even have a morning seminar the next day, we can stay there until nightfall."

"Enjolras!" Jehan shouted excitedly, wrapping his arms around his stomach and resting his head on him. He gripped him tightly and laughed. "Thank you very much!"

Enjolras couldn't help but smile. He always had a weakness for Jehan. He was the youngest, most innocent and also the most talented of all of them. Just as he was an only child, he was able to share that strange emptiness with him whenever one of the  _ Les Ámis  _ members began to talk about sibling fights and time spent together. Although not all relations were good — for example, Bossuet didn’t have a good relationship with any of his brothers — they envied them a little. Maybe it brought them together so much that, without one of them planning it, Enjolras suited himself as an older brother, and Jehan enjoyed his role as a younger, pampered brother. He noticed the attention he was paying to him - the little details that the others had overlooked but meant so much to Jehan. He knew that even this offer was only because he switched to his favorite role of  _ brother  _ again.

"But I must warn you that roller coasters are not my thing.”

"It doesn’t matter."

"All right then," Enjoras said in his typical calm, almost cold voice, but if Jehan looked into his face, he would notice that he was smiling.

The next day, the two agreed to meet in front of the main gate of the pilgrimage at five in the afternoon. The younger people, whose loud laughter could be heard all over the street, remained on the pilgrimage. The attractions were brighter, the music louder and the cold harsher. Autumn was already making itself known. As he waited, he felt the cold wind begin to crawl around his neck. He fidgeted. "Enjolras!" The blond looked at his watch and smiled. Jehan came just in time. He looked up from his watch and smiled sweetly at the younger man. But when he saw the figure behind him, he frowned and sighed. "We're on time, aren't we?"

"Yes, you are." The blond stared at the approaching figure, who smirked at him and raised an eyebrow. "What's he doing here?"

"I knew you'd be thrilled to see me, Apollo," Grantaire laughed, pulling his cap more to his forehead. Even so, the lobes of his ears, all red, protruded from it.

"I called him this morning and somehow we started talking about the pilgrimage and I said you were coming with me, and Grantaire asked if he could go too. And of course I said yes! Because it will be more fun with more people!” He threw up his hands like a small child and smiled broadly. Enjolras couldn't be angry with the redhead. He smiled and just nodded. "Let's go!" He shouted enthusiastically and walked through the gate.

Both of his friends followed him slowly. Grantaire leaned inconspicuously to Enjolras and whispered, "So you're sink on a roller coaster, right?"

"Shut up, Grantaire," Enjolras growled hostilely, and Grantaire laughed cleverly.

The whole pilgrimage was tuned to a haunting theme. The attractions were illuminated in red and scary sounds came from the speakers. There was only one haunted house, two floors high and the most expensive of all the attractions in the limited place, but according to the pale faces of the visitors who passed it, it was really top notch. The dishes were named after horror movies, series, characters or resembled some part of the human body. Jehan's eyes flashed with enthusiasm, and although Enjolras didn’t seek such things like entertainment, and Grantaire made no secret of his respect for spirits and all things supernatural; yet they enjoyed how much their friend had fun.

In two hours they passed almost every attraction. Jehan and Grantaire rode to all the attractions and enjoyed how high they all were. Enjolras always looked at them and waited with the water in his hands ready if they felt sick. Enjolras and Jehan tasted food from all the stalls, and returned to one that offered food named after serial killers.

As Grantaire and Jehan climbed the last roller coaster, which was the slowest but scariest of them all, Enjolras was waiting for them this time with a large, white bear in his arms, a blue bow tied around his neck. "Oh God, he's beautiful!" Jehan shouted and hurried to Enjolras.

"For you," he told the younger one.

"Really?" He asked, but he was already taking the bear in his arms so he could caress him. He was so fluffy! He felt as if he were touching velvet. The teddy bear smiled at him, and Jehan returned his smile widely. "Thank you!"

Enjolras felt a wonderful sense of happiness warm his chest. He felt it every time he could make one of his friends happy. He tried, but most of the time, before he had a chance to make them happy or pleased, he changed his mind. He was afraid that they would laugh at him or don’t understand his willingness. That's why he enjoyed it so much with Jehan. He knew the younger man longed for attention as much as he did. "When you boarded, I noticed that it was in the corner of the shooting range. So I won it. I had a choice between him and a scary pumpkin, but I hoped this would make you happier.”

"It does! Very! You are wonderful, Enjolras.” Jehan waited for nothing, wrapped his arms around Enjolras's neck, and he returned the hug by squeezing his waist. They squeezed the teddy bear between their chests, and they both laughed softly.

Grantaire watched them the whole time. He couldn't help smiling. How would he? Jehan was the walking sun, who charged everyone and gave him positive energy. He was the youngest and, like the others, was still afraid of the redhead and they tried to defend him from all evil. Each of them made up for his role as elder brother to Jehan. But no one knew how credibly Enjolras had seized it. And no one wanted to take this privilege. Everyone knew how much it meant to both of them.

But Grantaire still couldn't help to feel the gentle pinch in his heart. He was jealous to see Jehan press against Enjolras and enjoy his warm embrace. He was jealous to see Enjolras pay attention to Jehan and really listen to what he was saying. He was jealous to see how willing he was to accompany him to all school and private performances, and to accompany him home.

He selfishly wanted to experience the same happiness as the younger. He also wanted Enjolras' attention. He always managed to win it over with quarrels and inappropriate jokes. Only now did he decide to finally be nice to him, to try and look calmer in his company than he really was. And he did it! Enjolras perceived him, even smiling kindly at him, and once told him that  _ he would like to see his exhibition of paintings. _ Grantaire remembered telling him this on the balcony of his apartment when he decided to have a small party for his birthday, which was a little out of control. There was loud music in the apartment, his university friends came in with girls and a few crates of alcohol pulled into the apartment, and he was sure that the reason he couldn't get to his bedroom was because a couple was locked in it and made love. So he hoped it was just a couple. But Grantaire could only feel the way they stood side by side, the blond radiating warmth and looking at him with the most sincere gaze.

And then he ruined it all. As he always did. He didn't tame his instincts, the love he had for the blonde, and he threw himself on his lips. They were hot, wet, and tasted of bitter wine. He rubbed them a few times, and when he tried to open them with his tongue, Enjolras pushed him away. Grantaire immediately realized what he had done, and instead of apologizing, his stomach heaved, he quickly leaned over the railing and vomited. Enjolras and Joly took care of him all night, stroking his back as he vomited into the toilet bowl, and cooked him vegetable soup to get him out of the hangover as quickly as possible.

Whenever he remembered that evening, his whole stomach tightened. That kiss was the most beautiful thing that had happened to him in recent years. But he never imagined that the first kiss with Enjolras would take place like this. He had imagined several times that he would invite him on a date to a chosen restaurant, buy him a bracelet, walk with him on the beach, and then, at sunset, adjust a restless strand of hair behind his ear - Enjolras curls were always restless and towered in all directions - and then he would kiss him gently and ask if he could grab his hand and escort him home.

And instead he made a fool of himself like that. Since then, they have reached a point from which they haven’t been able to return to the old dorms - their quarrels were very calm and the arguments more debating - or moving on - and Grantaire tried it as best he could. The fact that their relationship, their friendship, or  _ whatever  _ it was between them had stopped terrified Grantaire. He was afraid he would become just another friend for Enjolras and eventually forget about him.

"Grantaire?" The brunette jerked. He looked ahead. Enjolras stood there alone. "Are you okay? Aren't you sick? You look kind of pale… "

"Just because you're sick at every attraction doesn't mean I am too." Enjolras just sighed and shrugged. "Where is Jehan?"

"He went to the bathroom." He pointed to the makeshift toilets. "He said he would want to go to that haunted castle then."

"That’s pretty hardcore," Grantaire said, looking at the house from which all sorts of screams were pouring. "But I have to try everything, right?" Enjolras just nodded. Grantaire noticed Enjolras keeping his eyes on Jehan, who was standing in line, cuddling with the teddy bear. The familiar jealousy stung his heart again. "And what about me?"

Enjolras looked at the brunette and asked, "You?"

"Did you get me something, too?" Enjolras blinked and the brunette laughed. "Sure, Apollo, I know! Like, I didn't expect you to bring me anything, I'm not such a dreamer, even though I'm a romantic soul, but that you won't think of me like that? Well, to be Courfeyrac, I'd be offended!” He looked back at the haunted house, tucked his hands in his pockets, trying not to notice how much his chest was burning. "But I'll take it you only don’t know how to schoot. You can shoot that bear by accident, right? You don't have to be ashamed of that, you can —  _ ah _ !” He shouted as he felt something hairy touch his face. He took a step aside and looked at Enjolras, who poked him with a small, plush koala. She held eucalyptus in her plush paws, which she chewed. "W-what?"

"For you," Enjolras said, waiting for Grantaire to take the teddy bear from him. "I'm sorry, but they didn't have a bigger one."

"Don't apologize!" Grantaire shouted, examining the koala. It fit in his hands. Even though it was small, Grantaire couldn't stand it. "Why a koala?"

"Because I remembered you saying that when you went to an exchange study to Australia in your first year of college, you absolutely fell in love with them. Unlike the snakes you met in the shower almost daily.” They both laughed softly.

"Thank you," Grantaire said, pulling the koala to his chest. "It is very kind of you."

"You're welcome, Grantaire."

They looked each other in the face, and without saying anything, it was clear to both of them what the other was thinking. For that failed, momentary kiss on the balcony a month ago. Enjolras wiped his lips with his tongue and let out a desperate sigh that ran through Grantaire’s body. He shrugged and took a deep breath. Grantaire also wet his lips and bit his bottom one in hope not to say something stupid. Enjolras took a step toward Grantaire, his hand reaching out to his face—

“Enjolras! Grantaire!” They both winced and looked at Jehan, who was waving at them. "We can go to that castle now! Come on!"

"We should go," Enjolras said as he cleared his throat.

"Sure," Grantaire said in a weak voice and exhaled.

Without further ado, they both reached Jehan and headed for the haunted castle. Although they both talked to him normally, they were still arguing or walking side by side in silence; Jehan noticed how they both blushed each time their eyes met.


	19. Fold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you also enjoy being with a bunch of friends that you get along with so well? I felt just as good writing about the boys today, perhaps as if I belonged to their group of friends. Tell me, who do you identify with the most? :)
> 
> PS: Yes, as always - Enjoltaire and their mutual pining romance. What a classic!

"Look, naked Grantaire!" Bahorel shouted enthusiastically and began waving an old photograph.

"Show me!" Jehan jumped to his feet, hurried over to his friend, and snatched the photo from his hand. As he looked at it, he began to giggle cutely, his cheeks flushing slightly. "No wonder you don't fuck with so many guys when you show them such an  _ earthworm _ ."

"Jehan!" Grantaire snatched the photograph from his hand, frowned, and gasped. "I was four in that photo! What did you expect me to have there! Mast?"

"A small twig might be enough."

"You’re starting to be pretty wild since you started dating Bahorel, young sir! I guess I'll have to tell your parents!” Grantaire turned and shouted, “Feuilly! Enjolras!” The two stopped working and looked at the brunette, who stood in the middle of the room, crossed his arms over his chest, and inflated his cheeks like a fish. "Your  _ son  _ is pretty rude and I demand that he apologize to me.”

"He didn't mean it that way," Feuilly said with a smile.

"He's not  _ my son _ ," Enjolras said, frowning. "And Feuilly is not my  _ wife _ ."

"It's only a matter of time," Grantaire countered with a smirk.

"And why do you think _ I _ would be a  _ wife _ ?" Feuilly asked the blond, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, we can't both be both husbands."

"Oh God, the guy who fights for human rights wants to divide people into  _ husbands  _ and  _ wives _ , do you understand?"

"Grantaire," Combeferre said, a little warningly. "Let it be." Grantaire was inhaling to say something, but Combeferre turned to Enjolras, who rose from his seat and blushed. "And you too, Enjolras. Sit down and work."

"Wow, maybe I'm stupid to guess who Enjolras's husband is," Grantaire said as he looked Combeferre from head to toe.

"Um, Combeferre seems too cold for me to be an exemplary husband," Joly interjected, approaching Combeferre, with a finger on his chin. "I'd rather see him at Enjolras's assistant, who strokes his hand and looks him in the eye every time he brings documents to his office, and his boss shakes with excitement. And the cold assistant who doesn't have much to say then seduces him and fucks him at his desk.”

"So a lover," Grantaire decided at last.

"It fits," Bossuet confirmed.

"Why do you think I'm not fit to be an exemplary husband?" Combeferre asked, confused.

"And why is Enjolras cheating on me in this story?" Feuilly asked, hurted. He turned to the blond and sobbed. "Why are you cheating on me?"

"I-I-you - This—"

"Jesus, stop it, you'll break Enjolras again," reprimanded Courfeyrac, who returned to the room with two boxes marked  _ Bedroom _ . He placed them next to the door and wiped his sweaty forehead. "Grantaire, a drink would be good. Don't you have anything? Or is everything packed already?”

"Alcohol not!"

"Great, it's kind of dry in my throat," Courfeyrac said wearily, and began wiping his sweaty cheeks.

"It's not hot in here," Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow. Marius, who had another, much smaller box in his hand, returned to the room and blushed, as did Courfeyrac. "What were you doing there, you perverts?"

Courfeyrac scowled conspiratorially. "Let's just say we admired your collection of  _ toys _ ."

"Courfeyrac!" Marius shouted, all red. He couldn't even look at Grantaire. He knew he was gay, the brunette never really hid it, but he was still surprised to find, under his bed, box full of—

"I forgot to hide it," Grantaire said, approaching Marius to pat him on the shoulder. "Good?"

Marius just nodded and hurried to Courfeyrac to place the box on his. His friend grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his chest. He immediately stuck to his face with his face and remarked sadly. "He’s not as innocent as he was a few minutes ago. I will miss it. He'll have nightmares because of you," he said in a reproachful voice. Grantaire just shrugged.

"Why should he have nightmares from toys?" Enjolras asked curiously. Everyone looked at him, and when they saw his innocent look, they just breathed sweetly. "What?" He asked again, noticing their motherly glances.

"That drink, Grantaire!" Courfeyrac whimpered aloud, and finally detached himself from Marius, who was still staring at the ground and seemed to faint soon. His whole face was already red, all the freckles came to the surface, and strangely his face turned yellow-brown. He looked as if he had been burned in the sun. "Marius?"

"I'll need some air."

“The balcony is fully available to you. I just have to warn you that the broom from the neighbors, which I'm not going to call a dog, is a bitch and bites. So don't try to touch him, okay?” The brunette warned him as he walked with him into the room that served as the living room a few hours ago and unlocked the balcony door for him. The wind that leaned against Marius made him shiver. The sun was shining beautifully today, but the temperature was still quite cold. Grantaire returned immediately to the line, which held several bottles of alcohol. "Will you all have some? I still have enough here and I don't want to pack them. "

"I'm dying of thirst!" Courfeyrac moaned.

"I've heard you before," Grantaire paid no attention to him and looked at the rest of his friends, who just nodded, left their works, and walked to the line beside Grantaire. All the chairs were gone, so they just leaned against the line and picked up the plastic cups they had planned to throw away right away. Grantaire noticed that Enjolras remained seated. "You don’t want?"

"I don't feel like it," said the blond boy.

"I have juice if you want. Somewhere. I hope so.”

Grantaire began to look around the kitchen, about to open the refrigerator, but Enjolras stopped him, "No, thank you. I'm not thirsty. I will work. "

"Don't you want to take a break?" Feuilly suggested.

"No." Enjolras got up, taped the box, and wrote on it the  _ Living Room _ in his beautiful, neat lettering. "Is there anything else I can bring?"

"There are still some books in the bedroom," Courfeyrac said as he was the first to pour himself red wine and growl contentedly. "It would still require cheese or selected ham and I would be satisfied."

"Then go buy it," Grantaire rolled his eyes and looked back at the blond. "You don't have to do anything, just—"

"I want to," the blond interrupted, walking into the room where Grantaire had slept for two years.

"Okay," Grantaire agreed quietly, but Enjolras could no longer hear him.

"He wouldn't cheat on me, even if he had the chance," Feuilly said with a laugh, shaking his head. "He'll die from overworking before he’ll ever think about sleeping with anyone else."

"I feel bad for his boyfriend one day, poor man," Bossuet laughed, pressing against Joly, stepping on his toes and kissing him on the chin. "I’m glad we'll never have such a problem." Joly smiled broadly at him and returned the kiss, this time to his forehead.

"Yeah, poor man," Grantaire whispered softly, trying not to think what it would be like to be  _ his  _ boyfriend.

Enjolras entered the bedroom, closed the door behind him, and looked around. Except for a table, a chair, and a shelf on the wall, there was nothing left in the room. The closet and bed were long folded and ready to go with Grantaire to the new apartment. When a brunette told them a few weeks ago that he would be moving to a new apartment in a better location, with better neighbors and better living conditions overall; each of his friends immediately offered to help him. Although he refused modestly at first, in the end he was glad to give in and his friends decided to help him. He was supposed to move out over the weekend, and he certainly couldn't do it without them. It was a lot of work even for nine people.

Enjolras wanted to take one box in his hands and take it to the hall when he noticed a crate next to it. It was made of solid wood and engraved with several ornaments that said nothing to Enjolras. Previously, they were probably painted with different colors, but now they were almost all washed away, leaving only remnants of drops. It was old, but Grantaire seemed to take good care of it. Apparently it was after someone in his family and had value for him - emotional one. After years of knowing the brunette, Enjolras knew he was very sentimental and clung to things that others found unnecessary.

A red stripe protruded from the crate, which looked like a bookmark to a book. He opened the lid and wanted to return the strip and close the lid again; but as soon as he opened the crate, he paused. There were several thick books in the crate, covered with cloth. Each had a different color - red, white or blue. Enjolras frowned. The substance reminded him of something. He saw the colors and remembered the flag of their home country, but he was more interested in how amateurously the cloth was sewn together. So it wasn’t made by Grantaire, who was strangely skillful in all kinds of handicrafts.

Enjolras reached for a book and stroked the cotton into which it was wrapped. He looked at it from all sides and, out of curiosity, opened the book. He immediately understood that it was not a book. It was a diary. He immediately recognized from the scriptures that it was Grantaire's. But there were no notes from school, memories of drunken nights, or the names of all the lovers who had gone through his bed; they were anatomical studies. He had various body parts depicted on each page, which he drew in detail and drew them several times in a row. In the first diary he was holding, less than half the pages were devoted to hands, palms, and elbows. He never imagined that painting was so hard. He put the diary in his lap and reached for another. As he expected - even this one had notes on painting. This time different structures of clothing, glass and wood.

Enjolras scanned one diary after another. He had never actually seen Grantaire's paintings. Not that he wasn't interested, but the brunette never bragged about them. He knew that he had had an exhibition of his final works with his classmates a few times; but Grantaire never revealed where and when. Although the blond tried to tell him that he wasn't walking around galleries and looking at shop windows to see the "Sorbonne Students' Exhibition", but he felt a strange pressure on his chest when Grantaire announced it was over, and he even heard several commendable comments from visitors. Now that he finally had a chance to see what the people were looking at, he wasn't surprised. Grantaire was talented. Artistic. And he seemed to have the ability to transfer things, people, and emotions to paper so perfectly that they seemed alive.

He felt a weird feeling, almost like if someone stabbed him in the chest again. He also wanted to praise Grantaire like those people. But could he? He never seemed to care about his opinion. Certainly not to art that was far from a blonde, and at first glance he would never recognize what André Derain and Georges Braque had painted. Occasionally he noticed that he had painted something in his notebook, which he still carried with him, but he didn’t allow anyone other than Jehan and Joly to look at his drawings.

He sighed. It was a pity. He liked what he saw. He set the diaries aside and looked inside. The last three diaries remained. He thought about returning them and finally helping Grantaire as he had promised, but when he realized that his friends were taking a break, he shrugged. He worked a lot, he could also rest for a while. And how else but in silence and without disturbing his annoying, loud friends?

He reached for another diary, which was wrapped in white cotton. He opened it and immediately inhaled loudly. He himself heard his breath catch in his throat. This time it was not about any studies, but about drawings. Portraits of people Grantaire probably knew, depending on how often their faces repeated themselves in the diary. On the first few leaves was a handsome girl with a birthmark on her shoulder. She had curly, black hair and big doe eyes. Enjlolras had seen her a few times. Her name was Éponine and she worked as a bartender in a club that Grantaire liked to go to. On the other pages was a woman he didn't recognize, but from the beautiful, warm eyes that looked like those of Grantaire, he guessed it was his mother or a close relative. On the other pages was his sister - a young, sixteen-year-old girl who enjoyed life and was in love with cats and art, as much as her older brother. They didn't meet often because she was in high school in Provence, but whenever she went to Paris, Grantaire was willing to cancel all his previous plans just so he could be with his younger sister. Enjolras had never met her before and saw her only in photographs. But in those paintings - with wet hair when she came out of the bathroom; petting with a bushy, white cat; laughing, holding an ice cream in her hand that melted into her palms - it came much closer and  _ livelier _ . On several other pages were women he didn’t recognize. Except for the final one - Cosette. Enjolras smiled. It was a portrait of her from the day Marius brought her to the Café Musain after meeting  _ Les Ámis _ to meet his friends. They laughed all night and drank enough wine until everyone had pink cheeks and dry throats.

He set the diary on the floor and reached for another, which was wrapped in blue cloth. He smiled as soon as he opened the diary. He could guess that if one diary was full of portraits of women, which probably meant a lot to Grantaire, this time it would be for a men. Especially their mutual friends. Several pages were devoted only to sketches of faces and expressions. Then he devoted several pages to Joly's portraits and then to his portrayals of Bossuet and Musichetta. He had to smile as he saw them embracing fervently from their sleep or kissing under the geraniums they had grown at home on the balcony. He could feel their love even through pages.

But the closer he got to the end, the more his heart pounded. He noticed that he wasn’t portrayed on any page. As his fingers rolled the paper to the last side - where Jehan, Bahorel and Feuilly were painted in a mutual hug after falling asleep on the couch at Grantaire, after a movie marathon; Bahorel still had uneaten popcorn in his mouth - he swallowed dryly. Was it okay to feel disappointed that he didn't see himself on paper? Why should it actually affect him like this?

"Calm down," Enjolras whispered, setting the diary on the floor. With his other hand, he put his hand on his chest and took a deep breath. There was the strange, weird feeling around his heart, and he gritted his teeth. He hadn't understood his feelings in months. He felt this way every time Grantaire looked at him coldly, when he started arguing with him, or he didn't want to tell him the joke that made Bossuet laugh so hard.

"Calm down," he whispered again, reaching for the last diary, this time in red cotton. He stroked it and thought. Does he really want to look at it? What if he doesn't see himself there again? It won't be him again and -  _ what _ ? It would hurt? Was that the feeling that settled on his chest? He didn't know.

However, as soon as he opened the diary, he felt his brain stopped working. Right on the first page, he was in all his beauty, as he performed on stage at the first, public demonstration six months ago. He blinked. "Oh God, calm down," he said suddenly as he felt his heart pound in his chest and felt his beat against his palm.

And what was that feeling like? He had it every time Grantaire called him  _ Apollo _ , or he smiled at him across the cafe and picked up a glass of wine in greeting, or when the brunette laughed so loudly that he distracted him. But he never blamed him. He had such a beautiful, resonant, throaty laugh. "Calm down," he whispered again as his heart pounded a little faster.

However, his words didn’t help. Every next page was dedicated to him.  _ Just  _ him. His figure, face, hands, shoes, clothes. It was depicted on all sides - was it real at all? Enjolras didn't feel that way -  _ beautiful _ . Grantaire painted it as painters once painted the idea of the Greek Gods. He had a built, tall figure, beautiful hair, clear eyes, sharp features, and a smile that always seemed to indicate  _ I'm someone better than you. _ He looked superior, as if he were shining on every page.

But Enjolras didn't mind. He felt -  _ special _ . Is that how a brunette really saw it? Enjolras looked to the side, where the dirty mirror still hung. He touched his fingers to his cheek, running to his lips and chin. He didn't feel as perfect as Grantaire drew him. But why did he enjoy it so much?

The last page was dedicated to his portrait from the spring celebration at Feuilly's apartment. He was wearing the awful white-and-black sweater, and he drank hot wine, but most of all, he was smiling. It was the only portrait where his face twisted into a smile. And Grantaire made sure to paint his dimples perfectly.

"Oh, I know," Enjolras said to himself as his fingers touched the red fabric sewn on the diary covers. "That's the flag." Before the demonstration, Enjolras decided that it would be good if each of them had a French flag. However, Enjolras didn’t have time to buy one, so he went to the fabric store to buy a piece of white, red and blue fabric and start sewing. It didn't look great. As Enjolras reached out, he noticed that it looked as if it had been sewn by a child. In the end, he decided not to take it to the demonstration. However, he left it lying on the table in the living room. After the demonstration, Grantaire came to his house to pick up the keys from the back room of the Café Musain, where they met, and where he forgot his backpack to school. He asked him what it was and pointed to the flag lying on the table. At that time, Enjolras just shrugged and replied -  _ rubbish _ . But Grantaire asked him if he could take it, and since the blonde had no other intentions with it and would really just throw it out, he told him he could. He didn't ask what he would need it for. In fact, he didn't even think to ask.

But now he recognized the substance. He recognized the bad connections. He recognized the round imprint of the cup that had remained there after placing a full cup of coffee on the flag and inadvertently shoving it and pouring out a few drops.

"Enjolras?" Enjolras winced, stopped thinking, quickly put all the diaries back in the crate and closed it. He almost pinched his fingers with it. When Grantaire entered the room, he had been sitting by the open box, looking as if he were packing books. "Everything is okay?"

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. His voice shaked a little with nervousness.

"Okay, well, here," the brunette said as he approached him and handed him a glass of juice. "I know you said you didn't want anything, but… so you know… you thought… Well. Yeah." And he didn't say anything else. Grantaire mostly liked to talk, so much so that the others had to stop him to get his word out. But every time he was left alone with the blond, he couldn't come up with anything cool. He stammered, cleared his throat, flushed in his face. Enjolras always suspected that the brunette probably didn't like him very much and was nervous with him.

But now, after what he saw, his nervousness probably meant something else.

But what exactly? Enjolras had no idea. All he knew was that he, too, felt a strange pressure spreading all over his body - it sat on his chest, spun with his stomach, tangled his head and shaked his fingers. He didn't like how he had no control over it all. He preferred to drink from a glass so that he wouldn't have to say anything and his weird, nervous voice could be heard.

"Well, I'm going to the boys again," Grantaire said, wanting to leave the room when Enjolras stopped him.

"Did you say something about not knowing how long it would take you to move in?"

"Yeah, well, we'll see. I've had a lot of things. I didn't even know how much. It will take some time.”

"Would a helping hand be useful for you?"

Grantaire realized what Enjolras had offered him. "Please, you're already working so hard, you don’t need to help me to move into a new apartment. I can't ask for that.”

"I'll be happy to help you, Grantaire."

"But-"

"Happy," he repeated in a slightly rougher voice.

Grantaire was silent for a moment, then just smiled and nodded. "Okay. So... yeah. Thanks.” He left the bedroom with that, but Enjolras still noticed his smile widened.

Enjolras set the glass on the floor and began packing. But in his head he was already devising a plan to inquire Grantaire discreetly about the diaries. Especially the last one.


	20. Boot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of Grantaire's most famous canonical sentences, after Enjolras asks him what he's good for and would be able to do for him, is, "I'll polish your boots." And yet I decide not to use this great material to write a hot story (read: porn) and I prefer to fall back into my favorite headcanon, when Enjolras suffers from anxiety, depression and other dark feelings he hide from others. And who else should reveal them but Grantaire?

Applause began to spread throughout the hall. It bounced off the walls and landed in everyone's ears. Several men sat in a wheel in the middle of the hall, one holding a wooden owl in his hand, tossing it from one hand to the other, and talked. He talked about what terrified him, what he feared, what gave him wrinkles on his forehead. He talked about his memories of his father beating him and his mother, who were sleeping in the closet because she was afraid that someone would eat her at night. He talked about his first wife, who divorced him after he first attempted suicide. His name was Henri and he joined the group only two months ago. However, he made progress faster than most of the members. When he finished, the applause came again. Smiling, he handed the owl to the man who was the only one in the suit. From the look of it, it looked expensive and the gold accessories on his fingers and around his neck were certainly not fakes. He adjusted his wide, black glasses on his nose and ran one hand through his beard. He was all gray, and there were only a few black strands left on his hair that were slowly fading. "Thank you, Henri, for motivating us all like this." Several men nodded in agreement. "Alexander, you can begin."

Enjolras - as the blond normally introduced himself by his last name, because his own name came to him foreign and didn't really like him (he was still trying to figure out why, in fact) - looked at the gray-haired man. His eyes slid to the name tag on his chest, where  _ A. Martin, the therapist, _ stood neatly. He gritted his teeth and heard them creak. According to the way one of the older men jumped next to him, it was probably louder than he intended. He nodded, reached for the therapist, and took a wooden owl from him. He examined her in his palms, examined each carved fold, and when he touched her beak with his finger, he began, "I was in the hospital again a week ago—"

"Sorry!" A sudden shout surprised everyone in the hall. They looked toward the door where the brunette stood, scratching his restless hair. "I'm really sorry, I forgot something here." He walked around the wheel and walked to a bench with red sneakers already worn.

"I was wondering who forgot them here," the therapist said, smiling at the brunette.

"Yeah, then I kind of messed up and I didn't even realize I came out in slippers." He took his slippers off his feet, kicked them in a corner where several were already lying down, and sat down on a bench so he could put on his boots.

"Lafayette takes the sport very seriously," the therapist said with a smile as he recalled one of his close friends, who had worked with him at the same psychotherapy facility for fifteen years. He was an avid athlete - cycling, running, rowing, swimming, playing basketball, football and sometimes tennis. _ As long as the body isn’t right, their mind will stay a mess _ , he said. And most of his therapies therefore took place on two levels - group speaking and team, sports play. Often, as he entered the hall after his lessons to prepare for his group, he could still feel the room full of sweat and hot air.

"Maybe too much, look," he said, pointing to his elbow, which was all red. It was also clear to the amateur that his elbow would turn bright purple within a few hours. "Football. We almost got into a fight." The brunette finally jumped to his feet. "Once again, I'm really sorry to disturb you like this, I wanted to wait for you to finish, but I'd like to be —  _ Enjolras _ ?"

The blond stopped examining the owl in his hands. When he heard his name, he winced and looked ahead. “Oh no,” he said softly. Only a brunette, who stood too far away but watched in the blink of an eye, could hear him, guessing what he had said. He was pale as if he saw a ghost. "What are you doing here?" He asked venomously, squeezing the owl in his palms until sharp folds began to cut into his palms. If he squeezed more, he would certainly start to bleed.

"What are  _ you  _ doing here?" The breathless brunette asked.

"Do you two know each other?" Martin asked as he finally looked at Enjolras, whose nostrils were widening. He took a deep breath and stared at the ground. Martin saw how tight his jaw was. He also saw his pounding vein in his neck, which seemed to burst at any moment.

"Yes," he replied before the therapist could ask him if he was okay. He would know that black hair everywhere. Like those piercing, blue eyes that weren't covered in a mist of alcohol now. He would recognize the untreated stubble on his face. Or those weird earrings he got with piercing two months ago. Who ever saw a man go crazy at thirty and have his navel pierced like a teenage girl?

Grantaire.  _ Only  _ Grantaire. "I know," he added, but refused to look the brunette in the eye.

"Enjolras, what are you doing here? This-"

"Sir, you should leave," the therapist asked.

"No," the brunette said, moving closer to the therapist and thus to Enjolras. As soon as he saw the approaching shadow of his figure, he huddled even more in his chair and tried not to notice his inner voice shouting at him -  _ Run, run, run _ . "Why are you here?" He asked the blond. But he did not have the slightest desire to answer him.

"Sir, do you know what group we are?"

"Lafayette said that most people with us have psychological problems. Anxiety, depression, and such…” He paused. He looked at the blond, who squeezed the owl even more in his hands and began to look at the door, hoping he could think of a simple way out. "...Shits," he added. "Enjolras?" The blond didn't want to look at him. He didn't want to see regret in his eyes.  _ God, especially not regret. _ It bothered him so much. Why did he show up here? Why did he decide to spoil the air in the only place where he felt safe until now? "Enjolras?"

"What?!" the blond snapped at the brunette and finally looked at him. As his gaze pierced his eyes, he swallowed loudly. Grantaire certainly didn't seem to feel sorry for him. There was only confusion in his eyes. He didn't understand what was happening.

"Alexander," the therapist scolded him in a soft voice, but Enjolras knew what that meant. It was a warning he always gave him when he sounded too withdrawn and had a desire to argue. Martin never jumped into a fight with him and always managed to tame him. Enjolras just nodded, finally released the grip in his hands and placed the owl in his lap. He had several red bruises on his palms. He crossed his arms over his chest so no one could see it. "If you have everything, you can leave. Or— ” Enjolras looked at the graying gentleman, who was examining only Grantaire's face. He didn't understand what he was up to, but he had a strange feeling in his stomach that he didn't like. "—You can stay with us. Alexander is the last to speak today. I think it would be good for you to listen to him. Is that so, Grantaire?”

"Do you know my name?" The brunette asked in astonishment.

Martin just nodded. "Let's take it as a happy guess. From everything Alexander told us here, I believe you are one of his closest friends.” Martin motioned for him to sit in an empty chair next to him. As soon as the brunette sat down, he added: "Who has a little problem with alcohol. That's why you're here today, isn't it? You were at Lafayette's Alcoholics Anonymous group."

"Yes," the brunette admitted, looking at the men's wheel and raising his hand. "Hi, I'm Grantaire." Everyone returned the greeting. "Wow, you're doing it here, too. Good.” He laughed nervously and folded his hands in his lap.

"Do you go to counseling?" The brunette looked ahead. He was sitting directly opposite Enjolras. They were far apart, but Grantaire would have sworn he could feel his strong cologne and the heat pouring from his body.

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"It will be about half a year now."

Enjolras blinked in confusion. "Why… Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well why didn’t  _ you _ tell me," Grantaire said instead of answering, looking around. "Therapy?"

Enjolras didn't know what to tell him. He couldn't lie. Grantaire could see clearly and know where they were. In the hall, which has served as a psychotherapy center for several years. A small counseling center with five therapists who were in charge of several groups. Each of them was focused on a different field. And Enjolras was sitting today with Dr. Martin, a mental disorders specialist. In a group that was the only one focused on depression, anxiety and suicidal behavior. Just the thought of talking about something that was bothering him in front of his friend made him go crazy. If he wanted one of his friends to listen to him, he would have done it long ago. They would listen. He wasn't afraid of that. But he didn't want their help. He didn't want the most secret and worst of his soul to know about him. He didn't want to bother them with his problems. Although Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and sometimes Feuilly tried to tell him that none of his problems would  _ ever  _ be a burden to them; he didn't believe them. He knew how confused they were to see only a piece of his torn interior. Each time he showed them a piece of himself, he withdrew even more. Their eyes, full of sadness and inability to understand him, terrified him. They showed him even more that he would  _ never be nor _ —

"Alexander." Enjolras realized he wasn't breathing. He took a quick breath and coughed as soon as he felt his entire lungs fill with oxygen. How long did he hold his breath? When did it even happen? "You were thinking again of something that wasn’t true," the therapist told him, and if he had not been in a group with other men, he would have touched his shaking palm long ago. He knew that physical contact between the patient and the therapist was forbidden. But after years of coming to Martin, he understood only one thing - this young man, twenty-five-year-old, sometimes needed a gentle touch. Just for one thing - to get back to reality and his brain to stop inventing nonsense. "Alright?" He asked after Enjolras was breathing regularly. " _ Everything _ is alright?"

Enjolras looked at Grantaire. He knew very well what Martin was asking him.  _ Is it okay if your friend is here _ ? Instead of answering, Enjolras just nodded. "Maybe it'll be better that way," he whispered.

But Martin heard him quite clearly. He smiled and focused on Grantaire again. "Will you want to hear it? To be your friend's support?”

"Of course," Grantaire said, perhaps too quickly and eagerly. "W-whatever will help him - it will be - a pleasure for me." It was normal for him to babble. But now he couldn't find the words. He didn't know what was coming, and the looks everyone in the room gave him, made him nervous.

Enjolras just smiled. But he didn't know how to start. What should he say? What to talk about? Was he sure he could say absolutely everything? It took him a long time to talk to the group. For two months he just went to her, listened to strangers' stories, and supported strangers. But today he spoke to them as if they were his longtime friends, believing them and understanding that they would never judge him for what he said or felt. "Alexander."

"I know," the blond said, taking a deep breath. He folded his hands in his lap so he could take the owl back in his hands. He looked into her big eyes. He was determined to talk. Just as he was determined not to look Grantaire in the eye. He didn't want to see what his words would do to his otherwise calm and always smiling face. "I was in the hospital again a week ago. And I talked to the doctor about those feelings.”

"Feelings?"

"More about how I constantly feel something on my body itches. I was hoping it might be a rash or that I was allergic to a new washing powder. But the itching didn't stop, not even after a few days, weeks, and now not even after a month. I really started to worry that something was wrong with me, because the doctor didn't find anything on the tests, my skin looked fine and in fact… He didn't find anything."

"Where do you feel the itch most?"

Enjolras bit his lower lip. "...On the arms and thighs."

Martin made a sound that meant -  _ I understand _ . "Your scars?"

"Yes," he admitted, exhaling contentedly when he realized that someone understood him. "They have long since healed, they are almost invisible. I don't even have to cover them with makeup anymore. The saleswoman in the store was already starting to look at me strangely when I was buying women's cosmetics there every month.” He smiled at the memory of the lady behind the cash register. He didn't find it embarrassing or strange. Rather, he laughed at what she must have imagined. She must have seen a beautiful boy, and she thought he had a collection of cosmetics, eye shadows, nail polishes at home, and a closet full of dresses he wore when he was alone. And yet it was a better idea of what he was really buying it for. "It took me a long time to realize that 'the scars were to blame. That I don't mind seeing them anymore. I stopped masking them, but they are already pale and my skin is so white that they are almost invisible and I… When I didn’t see them in the reflection in the mirror, after bathing or after looking at them to see what they look like… The itching was worse. And it didn't stop."

"Did you tell the doctor?"

"No."

"No reason why you feel itchy?"

"No."

"Do you plan to tell him?"

"...I don't know."

"How long does itching take?"

"A month."

"How long did it take you to realize what it meant?"

"I didn't realize it until this week, Monday."

"Does that scare you?"

"A little."

"The itching or the knowledge that you know what that means?"

"Probably both. It's unpleasant. Both the feeling and... the thoughts. ”

"Are they strong?"

"Very."

"Will you try to commit suicide again when you get home today?"

Grantaire made a sound as if he were suffocating. Enjolras winced, but didn't intend to look at him. Not yet. He licked his lips with his tongue and swallowed dry. How is it that every time he talked about his problem, his throat always dried up as if he hadn't been drinking water for a week? His whole throat always scratched him madly after sessions, and he didn't scratch it just by force of will. His voice was always a little hoarse, and he tried to loosen it with hot tea. It was uncomfortable and quite impractical in the summer. Also, he now had excuses of tea consumption able to hide thanks to the cold, autumn weather. "I don't know," he admitted after a moment.

"What?" Grantaire's voice was — frightened, weak, quiet. He had never heard him like this before. He looked at him and was horrified. Grantaire was pale, his eyes wide and round, and his fingers clenched to his knees so he couldn't see how much they were shaking. It didn't help. Even his shoulders twitched a few times. Grantaire began to shake his head, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard. "...Not that, Enjolras."

"Grantaire—"

"No."

"Grain-"

"No," Grantaire said in a harsh voice, trying to stay calm. He shouted at himself so as not to raise his voice. But he couldn’t control himself. The idea that his friend, his closest friend, his first true love, his leader, his  _ angel  _ \- think of such things ...

He shook and grabbed his elbows. He needed to feel his warmth now. He needed to feel safe. But now he felt as if he was exposed to a life-threatening situation. What the hell was that feeling? "No," he said again, shaking his head. "That is not possible, Enjolras. You're… You're the best person I've ever known in my life, you just can't— ”

"What can't I do, Grantaire?" Enjolras asked him just as rudely. "To be weak?"

"But you aren’t weak!"

Enjolras chuckled. "Of course. That's why I cut myself half a year ago and tried to bleed myself to death so that I finally didn't have to feel the nasty pressure of feel like a shit every second of my life.” He took a deep breath and felt his whole throat tighten.

He said it. He  _ really  _ said it out loud. Out loud in front of one of his friends. Loud in front of Grantaire. He couldn't take it back.

His hand began to tap his feet on the ground. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to leave. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. How could he think it would be a good idea for a brunette to hear him?

But Grantaire's thoughts were elsewhere. He didn't know what to think before. To  _ what  _ Enjolras said or  _ how  _ he said it? Half a year ago, Enjolras was unavailable for two days. No one could call him, he didn't send a message to anyone, he didn't open the door at his home. On the third day, he called and told them that he had to go to his parents in Provence as a matter of urgency and would not return to Paris for at least two weeks. He apologized for not telling them about it before and also for giving them a job. At that time, in the Musain café, most of his friends said the sentence -  _ The lucky man, he's on vacation!  _ \- If only they knew…

But how could they? Enjolras never talked about his problems. Nobody even knew if he had any at all. Although he was also just a man, and every person in the world was bothered by something, but he always just said -  _ My biggest problem is the system of this country. And together we will change it! _

Nobody asked. Nobody was interested.

No one really knew Enjolras.

Grantaire looked at the blonde, who was watching him with a look he thought he would never see. His eyes were blank, his mouth tied in a narrow line, and his cheeks were pale, as if they hadn't seen the bright sun in months. "Enjolras," he began, but immediately paused. What should he tell him? What would please him at the moment? "Enjolras," he repeated. He immediately looked at Martin and asked, “Can I talk now? I'd like to say something to my friend. "

"Sure," Martin said strangely enthusiastically, straightening in his chair. He had a pencil and paper in his hand, but he hadn't written down anything in it. He watched closely what was happening.

"Enjolras, I… it never occurred to me that I would have to… Like someone like  _ me _ , to tell someone like  _ you  _ that it was definitely not worth a…  _ Fuck _ , I've never had a problem being rude. But when it means to talk about you, I can’t say it. You're just not what you said. After all, you have founded the  _ Les Ámis  _ and thanks to you we live and thanks to you we have something to do and thanks to you—”

"Grantaire, don't calm me down," the blond asked. "Both very well know that  _ our club _ —" So Enjolras talked about him in front of the others, never planning to acquaint them more with their goals. "—will end one day. Because how could it continue without a proper, fair and hard-working leader?”

"Which you are."

"Grant-"

"Enjolras, listen." Grantaire straightened in his chair and took a deep breath. "I will repeat it only once and you will listen to the end. You won't interrupt me once and write down in your heart what I'm going to tell you now, okay? ”Enjolras just raised an eyebrow and nodded. He had a neutral expression. He looked like he didn't really care. But if he approached him and placed his palm on his chest, he would immediately hear his heart pounding with nervousness. "I came to Paris four years ago to become an artist. Look, everyone sitting here probably has no idea who I am. Because I didn't fucking succes, and I'm not good enough for a great investor to notice me right away. Yeah, the beginnings are hard for everyone, but when it's been a  _ year _ , well, it starts to bother you. I started getting drunk then, I was kicked out of school, the paintings sucked, I had debts, I didn't have a job, I was kicked out of the apartment. Look, this group isn't for this, I'm sorry you had to hear my life story, but it's important. Because, just because of you, I got back at my feet. When I first saw you at the demonstration, I thought you were just another of the young people who didn't have a life. I didn't want to listen to you, but something made me stay there. Hear you. Perceive your words. Not just what you said, but what was hidden behind it all. The hope you wanted to give everyone, because you feel it and you know you can change something. Look, I don't believe in anything you're trying to do, because I'm an old, greedy skeptic; but  _ I believe in you _ . I believe that thanks to your diligence, willingness and cordiality, you will really change something one day. At first you were just a young boy to me, a dreamer, but over time… Over time, I realized that you were much more. You're just like the rest of us, you're just human, too. A man who laughs at an embarrassing joke that I wouldn't even laugh at when I was five. A man who loves animals and is willing to help five shelters just to feel like they are all getting new homes. A person who loves wine, even if he doesn't want to admit it, because then everyone would like to pour it for you and you can't handle alcohol and you get drunk fast enough. After years, I understood that… That you are something more. More than anyone I've ever felt. You have pride in you. But not arrogant, the kind of healthy one that just moves you closer to your goal. You’re smart, terribly talented and  _ God _ , I will never win any French history quiz against you in my life. And most importantly, you can help. Everyone. You're giving away, and only now do I understand why you're doing it. So that you don't think about your problems, but believe me. We are here for you. Me and the boys. You are important to us. We want to belong to your life just as you belong to ours. We want to give you the same warmth and security you put into us. Thanks to what you did for us and because you decided to be our friend."

Grantaire paused, looked at Martin, and swallowed dry. "Say it," he said quietly, realizing he needed courage.

"Enjolras," Grantaire said, smiling and looking at the blond. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. Please don't make me beg you not to take the only one beautiful thing in my life. Let's talk about it. Tell me what's going on. But  _ don't leave _ ."

Enjolras sat in a chair with his mouth open and silent. He couldn't believe what the brunette was telling him. He sensed his every word, every gesture, every look. But he was more aware of his pounding heart and chin that was shaking. In a moment, his gaze blurred and his lungs stopped sucking in enough air. Before he knew what was happening, he felt someone wrap his arms around him. His nose was buried in Grantaire's shoulder, he could feel his fingers in his hair and whispered softly in his ear, "God, Enjolras, don't cry,  _ don't cry _ ."

_ Oh, that's why. _ He cried. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks and stuffed his entire nose. He had to breathe through his mouth, but as soon as he opened it, soft sighs began to creep out of his mouth. It hurted. Everything. Feel the annoying pressure in his head. Feel itching all over his body. Feel the urge to run home again and take one last look at his reflection in the mirror before deciding to fall into the darkness.

Everything hurted _ so much. _

"Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, and all he could do was hug the brunette tightly around his hips and press him against his body. He needed to feel his warmth now. He didn't want to be alone.

All he could hear was a loud applause from the hall. The session is over.

Grantaire and Enjolras hugged for a few more minutes before the blond pulled the brunette away and stood up. "Wait for me outside," he asked as he wiped the tears from his face and walked with Martin to his office.

Grantaire waited outside for less than ten minutes. He was smoking his second cigarette when the door to the center opened. Enjolras walked over to Grantaire. He had the stony look on his face and a proud attitude again. Only red eyes and a red nose revealed a moment of weakness. “Here on the corner is a really good Mexican restaurant. I'm quite hungry. Do you want to join?"

"Sure," Grantaire agreed, smiling.

They still had a lot to talk about. But now they just needed to make sure the other one was there for them. Whatever happens.


	21. Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that I really like the world I put today's story into. And I'd like to use it again. What do you think?

"The world is like a flower, where love is your light and makes you bloom."

That was the last sentence Grantaire's grandmother said before she died. With a smile on her face, in her own bed, with her family around her bed. Grantaire was seven years old. When his grandmother closed her eyes and her chest stopped rising in her breaths, he didn't care what she said. He just wanted her back. To bake him her delicious poppy seed cakes again or to sing an old, Indian lullaby she learned while traveling around South America as a young girl. He cried, moaned, and begged his mother to explain why the only woman in his life who loved him so infinitely had to die. His mother couldn't answer him, just looked at him coldly and left the room.

At the funeral, he met family members he didn’t recognize. He held hands with his grandfather, who was sitting closest to the coffin, looking ahead in an absent expression. They remained last in the entire ceremonial hall. It was raining outside again and the wind was blowing, just as he had been used to every fall. They held hands and remained silent. Their tears dried long ago.

After two long hours, his grandfather finally decided to break their silence with the words, "I have something for you." He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his black jacket, which he had last worn for his wedding. It was old, described and, depending on how the pages fell out, also quite used. Grandfather handed it to Grantaire, who opened it and recognized his grandmother's handwriting at the site. She loved calligraphy. She wrote in the most beautiful script he had ever seen. On the first page of the diary was a sentence she spoke just before she exhaled for the last time. "She wants you to have it. Take care of it. "

"I will. I promise," Grantaire said, pressing the diary against his small chest.

And Grantaire kept his promise. He read the diary every time he felt at the bottom. When he could no longer listen to his parents' quarrels. When he had to cool his face with frozen vegetables after his father hit him again for something he hadn't done. He read pages he knew by heart. His fingers touched the neat writing and the beautiful drawings.

If only he could see their beautiful colors.

Everyone in this world was born colorblind. Everyone opened their eyes to a world that was black, white and gray. The wonderful world could only be seen after you first met your first, true love. So it was normal for everyone to see a colorful world around the age of five. Mostly due to strong feelings of affection for the boy in kindergarten who brought the big plush dinosaur, or for the girl, who already had her baby teeth removed.

But Grantaire still hadn't seen them. When his mother asked him at five years to hand her blue colored paper, he handed her red. He couldn't find the one in the tangle of dark shades that was supposed to be  _ blue _ . What did such a  _ blue  _ look like? Grantaire was bothered. He saw his grandmother paint, draw and sew. Her paintings, paintings, clothes - everything was beautiful. But Grantaire never knew  _ how much _ . He didn't know what colors she used and if they matched each other as well as the shades he saw in front of him. Once he confided in his mother, she asked him, laughing, "How could a child not born out of love ever know what love is?"

But he recognized it. His grandparents, who took him on trips, read books to him and showed him the beauties of the world, which were still too gray, too white, too black. But with their smiles and fleeting touches, they were  _ beautiful _ . When his grandmother became ill and was diagnosed with stomach cancer, which was at a stage when she was no longer advised to undergo any surgery or treatment; she told Grantaire that she had always felt that one day he would be a great artist. "But how could I be?" He asked, sadness in his voice. "I can't see the colors." So she taught him for months how to find the chosen colors in the tangle of his color-blind world. He knew that the darkest black was really black, and the one that was a little lighter but still not light enough was red. He recognized that what looked gray was actually yellow, and the dark gray, only light green. It took a long time, but when he first drew a picture with colors that fit together, his grandmother cried with happiness. They hugged for long hours, and the picture was on the refrigerator in the kitchen until her death.

Now Grantaire was looking at him in the diary, on the last page, based next to the sentence that meant so much to him. He repeated it over and over, trying to trust it. Even in elementary school, when every child who finally saw the colors for the first time began to cry with happiness. Even in high school, where he was the only one who hadn't seen the colors yet.

But he didn't tell anyone. His grandmother taught him to recognize colors so perfectly that he would be able to paint even blindly. When someone asked him, "How is it possible that you were able to combine such a beautiful color?", He just replied, "Because I can feel those colors." And that was true. Better, more perfect than the fact that he simply didn't see the colors and  _ had  _ to learn to perceive them differently.

Even so, he managed to get into art college. His parents didn't even know it anymore. They had broken all contact with him long ago. He didn't care. His younger sister, who never feels the warm touch of their parents, because they acted like she didn’t exist; had gone to Paris with him to study at a high school near their small apartment, which Grantaire could only afford with two brigades - one in a restaurant and the other in a nightclub. Studying was hard, the work was demanding and the days were running too fast. But the smile on his sister's face every time she saw another of his perfect works was worth it.

He had been in Paris for half a year. The anniversary of his grandmother's death was approaching. He hated his hometown, but only to this day was he able to return to it to lay her favorite flowers - gerberas - on her grave. He was walking down Saint-Michel Street when he came across a small flower shop. In addition to several types of roses and thyme, they sold gerberas. Grantaire examined their darkness and lightness when he felt something beautiful. He pulled one of the flowers closer to his nose and smelled hard. But it wasn't a flower. He frowned. He felt it again. It was coming from the street. He ordered a bouquet from the owner, which he was to pick up in a week, and left for the scent that so attracted him. He got to the door of the café called  _ Café Musain. _

But he didn’t enter the cafe. He had to go home to change clothes and go for another shift at the bar. But he spent the night wondering why he couldn't get rid of the annoying, sweet smell that had settled in his nose. As if chasing him. At six in the morning he went home, lay down on the couch, and thought. He was interrupted by his sister, who decided to wake up earlier so she could take a long, hot bath before the school. She made him breakfast that made him finally forget the scent.

A few days later, however, he walked down the street again. He had no reason, the flower shop was closed, he had ordered a bouquet. Perhaps only curiosity about what the scent meant attracted him there. And it was there again. He sucked through his nose like the most exquisite cologne and moaned contentedly. It smelled like lilac, vanilla and orange. Also burnt wood and ground coffee. They were strong, unmistakable odors. As if he was trying to mix dark orange with light green. It would turn out badly. But the smell -  _ was beautiful _ .. As if it belonged to someone.

At that moment, Grantaire was terrified. He preferred to go home, where he devoted himself to his next painting. He wore headphones to which he played loud music and tried not to notice the smell that this time settled on his clothes. However, he could only paint the figure of an angel on the canvas, with a few wings and no face. He looked dissatisfied at what he had created and poured black on the canvas after a few strokes. Everything was wrong. He went to the kitchen to make coffee. His mood was noticed by his younger sister, who tried not to laugh too loudly at the new part of the sitcom, which Grantaire didn’t understand and didn’t like. "Is something wrong?" She asked him cautiously, seeing how frowned he was.

"Is it possible for me to feel my first love? Not see, but smell?” He asked.

"I also smelt Henri before I saw him," she told him with a smile.

"And how did it smell?"

“Like cut grass and spring rays of the sun. And strawberries. Lots of strawberries," she laughed. She immediately jumped to her feet and asked, her eyes wide, "Did you find your first love?"

"No, I just smelled something really annoying," he countered, wanting to go back to his room.

But his sister stopped him, her eyes shining with the flames she knew so well, and if she could, she would jump on tiptoe a few times to show how much she was happy. "You must find her, little brother! Your dream would come true, you would finally see the colors!”

Grantaire was never really interested in love. He found it problematic. As he grew older, he realized that short skirts, puffy breasts, and sweet voices were nothing to him. All he could see was the boys' shoulders widen, their voices deeper, and acne on their faces. When he first kissed the girl, instead of enjoying her sweet lips, he thought about how he would kiss Julien - their most beautiful classmate with the smoothest skin he had ever touched. They both moaned his name into their common, too inexperienced and too wet kiss. Grantaire realized at that moment that his love would be a man. But he wasn’t one of her classmates, co-workers or professors.

Grantaire didn't even care anymore. Relationships were never his domain. Sooner or later, he drove everyone apart with his affection for alcohol, too vulgar jokes or just jealousy. The only thing that mattered to him every time he touched a new boy and felt his breath on his lips was that his world was finally colorful. He wanted to see life as it really looked. He finally wanted to see the red color, which he admired so much and used in his paintings.

And maybe that was why, a week later, he decided to take Saint-Michel Street again. He didn't even stop at the flower shop and walked straight to the end of the street where Musain's cafe was. The whole cafe was nice, warm and there was a strange family atmosphere. Perhaps it was the widowed Mrs. Houchelop, who ran her business with her adult daughters and knew each customer by name and smiled at him as another member of her family.

But most of all, Grantaire sensed only the irresistible smell he felt. The one that filled his lungs and made his head spin. He took a few steps to the end of the room where the door was closed. He opened them and entered the corridor that led to the back room. It was probably a private room for special guests, and Grantaire knew he had no right to go there, but he couldn't resist. The smell, the wonderful smell, was a little stronger here.

"Hi." Grantaire winced. He turned to look at the young man, who had long — apparently light brown or light red — hair that was braided and draped over one shoulder. "Are you going to the meeting?"

"Meeting?" Grantaire asked, confused.

"Oh, newbie!" The young man shouted enthusiastically, and even without knowing Grantaire, he grabbed his palm. "We're always happy for someone new to join us." With that, he pulled Grantaire to the back door, tapped them twice, and waited for another boy to open them — not much older than the one who led him down the hall — and they smiled broadly at each other. "Novice."

"Great," the boy said, and as soon as Grantaire came in, he shook his hand. "I'm Courfeyrac."

"And me, Jean Prouvaire, but call me Jehan," the young man who had brought him here told him, and he sat down next to a large, tattooed man who was playing dominoes with someone who had long been bald.

"Have you seen our demonstration?" Courfeyrac asked, and Grantaire just nodded.

He looked around the room and sighed. It was clear to him what this was all about. He had seen many such associations. These were mostly university students - ideally a humanities major such as law, culture, sociology or pedagogy - who saw mistakes in their country's political system and tried to change it. They demonstrated, wrote open letters to the president, each owned a blog on which to share their own proposals, several of which tried to get into government or start their own political parties.

Grantaire had never been interested in anything like that. They all seemed strange to him, and he always felt that they were just selected, rich boys who really knew nothing about real life. He did not see their demonstration, he did not know them, but for peace in theirs, and in his soul, he lied that he did. "Enjolras will be thrilled to see another member." As soon as the name of a man he had never seen before came, the smell was a little stronger again. As if it belonged to him.

Grantaire winced. The scent belonged to him. So it was certain that whatever he felt belonged to Enjolras, and he had to stay here to understand what it was. "One meeting won't kill me, will it?" He said rather to reassure himself, but Courfeyrac thought he was talking to him and smiled broadly at him.

And so Grantaire met all members of the  _ Les Ámis _ .

When he talked for a good half hour to Joly and Bossuet - who he fell in love with not only because of their humor but also their worldview and admired their mutual love, which they could share with a girl named Musichetta ("That was so weird," Joly said, "I only saw the colors halfway, I missed the yellow, green, and red. Musichetta too. It wasn't until we met Bossuet that we understood why. He added those colors. We were all three first love for ourselves! It's that romantic? And so unique! I don't know anyone to whom it would happen.") - the door opened and the last, expected member entered the room.

Grantaire had no idea what had shaken his world before.

The smell that tangled his head and lifted his stomach?

Or how his world was filled with vibrant colors?

Grantaire had to grab the edge of the table to keep from fainting. Joly leaned over, stroked his shoulder, and asked something— probably if he was okay — but he didn't notice him. He saw everything get colored. He expected that once his world became colorful, it would come slowly. Like calm water. But a tsunami came right for him. She swept away all gray, black, and white and replaced it with a colorful world. He saw every color he could remember. Grantaire looked at himself. He was wearing his favorite plaid shirt. Of course in red. But now he finally saw what  _ red  _ really looked like. Tears welled in his eyes.  _ Beautiful. _

"Oh, I'm so glad we have a new member here." Grantaire winced. He kept his eyes on his shirt, but now he could only feel the thick, strong scent that filled all his senses. He saw his fingers first, then the palm that reached out to him, until he looked up high enough to look into the face of the most beautiful man he had ever seen. His hair was blond and restless, his eyes bright blue, he wore the school uniforms of the prestigious  _ University of Paris - Sorbonne _ and smiled slightly at him, his cheeks pink as well as the tips of his ears. "I am Enjolras."

_ Your first love. _


	22. Leaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My teeth have been aching since yesterday and I practically haven't slept today. And so I thought that I would share the pain with you and ruin your teeth with the sweetened romance that I have prepared for you today. Did I succeed? :D

"Please," said the director of the retirement home as he opened the door to the garden. Immediately a strong wind leaned against everyone. The cold tickled their faces and turned them light pink. "I believe it won't take you more than two hours," he told the two boys as they entered the garden, then closed behind them.

As soon as the door slammed, Grantaire looked at the garden and began to get upset: "How do we clean this up in two hours? This will take about half a year! ”

"Stop exaggerating," the younger of them said, rolling his eyes and walking to one corner of the garden. "I'll clean it up here, you take care of the other half," he ordered, as usual, took the rake in his hand and set about removing the leaves.

Grantaire grunted in displeasure, but obeyed. As soon as he picked up the rake, he moaned softly, "And orange isn't my color," as he inspected the uniform they'd both received from the court assistant.

One week ago, their revolutionary group  _ Les Ámis _ had its first public demonstration. Everything was carried in a calm, peaceful spirit, and even met with surprising opinions and discussions. No one wanted to argue, no one made unnecessary trouble. Even a pastry shop owner decided to bring free tea and biscuits to protesters and police members. It was very cold, everyone was shaking, and even Enjolras, mostly warmed by his zeal for a change, fidgeted here and there, steam rising from his mouth.

Everything was actually strangely pleasant. And maybe that's why Enjolras was nervous. He waited for what would go wrong, but still nothing came. Even when the protesters decided to go home and the police ended their patrol and drove back to their workplaces, no one did anything. As he began to admit that nothing had gone wrong, he smiled at the changes they would soon bring; he saw Grantaire. He stood strangely close to one wall and moved weirdly around it. It wasn't until he got closer to him that he noticed that he had a spray in his hand that blackened his fingers. "What are you doing here?" Enjolras asked angrily, noticing what he was painting on the wall. On a wall that was definitely  _ not  _ intended for spraying. "If anyone catches you—"

He didn't finish it anymore. Behind them came only a loud voice, "What are you doing there, gentlemen?" And Enjolras knew very well what would follow. They turned to see the policeman with his eyebrows raised, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked as if he had just caught a nationally wanted criminal. Before one of them could answer, the policeman walked over to them, took a spray from Grantaire, threw it back into the bag he had next to his feet, and asked them both to go with him. Neither caused unnecessary trouble, it wasn't worth it.

They asked them at the police station if they realized what they had done. It seemed exaggerated to Enjolras, they questioned them as if they had murdered someone, while only Grantaire spray-painted a piece of the wall. Well, it  _ wasn't  _ a small piece, but he had to admit that at least it looked nice. "Were you involved in any way?" They asked Enjolras, and he said without hesitation, "Yes."

Could he betray one of his friends? Never.

Could he betray Grantaire? Maybe. He didn't take him as his best friend, and he didn't even know  _ what kind of friends  _ they were at all, but he spray-painted the _ Les Ámis are saviours of your sad lives  _ on the wall in neat writing. And he wanted to report publicly to the group, no matter how much trouble it would end up.

A few days later, they both met in public court, they’re tenth in line — after traffic violations and small retail robberies — and the verdict was clear: “Two weeks of community service.” The job was picked up by a police officer who caught them. And Enjolras was sure of one thing - he must have been infinitely bored.

They had already swept the streets near the schools, where students kept throwing cigarette butts under their feet. They cleaned fountains and artificial ponds in parks. They cleared fallen branches and pieces of trees on the playground. He even sent them to help workers in the sewers, where they had several clogged pipes. Enjolras always returned home tired, but most importantly -  _ irritated _ .

It wasn’t his fault that one of its members opted for a stupid thing like spraying a wall. So why did he have to serve his sentence with him? Maybe he would have taken it differently if Grantaire hadn't been so lazy. He always took him as a hard worker, his artistic talents and works were known to everyone, and in fact he respected him a lot thanks to that. But hard work? A real, hard job that would make the calluses on his hands and make him feel like he's all sweating and can't get up the next day? That didn't tell Grantaire anything. He flirted with female students in front of the school, sometimes even male ones. He watched single mothers on the playground. Instead of cleaning the sewers, he talked to the master and they played dominoes together while smoking the joint.

Enjolras had had enough. This was their last job. He was quite looking forward to it. He always worshiped the elderly, liked to go to the retirement home at Christmas time to cheer up a couple of lonely grandmothers and grandfathers who were always happy when someone younger talked to them and heard their stories - about love, about work, about war, about everything they were interested in. The important thing was that he listened to them. Always with a smile.

But he couldn't control himself now. He could feel the rake digging too hard into the ground, picking up a lot of dirt in addition to the leaves. He had to clean them all the time. Each time he stopped to clean them, he noticed a curtain on the lower floor moving. Several residents of the home watched them. And it bothered him. Otherwise always a nice, helpful and charismatic blonde; he was like a drawn grenade—

"Catch!" - who was waiting for a throw into the war zone.

Enjolras closed his eyes as he felt a few leaves hit him in the face. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened his eyes again. He turned to Grantaire, who was standing a few steps away from him, smiling mischievously at him. "Can you tell me what you're doing?"

"I'm throwing leaves at you," he said just before leaning to the ground, grabbing a few leaves in his hands and throwing them at Enjolras again.

Enjolras stood at his place, not moving. Once again, the leaves hit him right in the face. He could feel the dampness of the evening rain and morning moisture. "Can you stop that?" He asked, squeezing the rake more.

"No," Grantaire said firmly, tossing a few leaves at him again.

"Stop it, Grantaire," Enjolras said rudely.

"Jesus, Apollo, this is terrible boredom," Grantaire whimpered as he knelt and began collecting a few leaves in his arms. "We can do other things than clean up."

"Such as?"

"Throw them," he laughed as he threw again.

This time, a few leaves remained on Enjolras' orange uniform and hair. "Stop it," he asked again. He hoped that if the brunette didn't stop his voice, his eyes, which were now colder than the temperature outside, would.

"No," Grantaire replied firmly, leaning in for the leaves again. "And go!"

"Grantaire," Enjolras said warningly. Another hit.

"Go!" Throw.

"Stop it." Hit.

"There you are!" Throw.

"Let—" Hit.

"Eat it!" Throw.

"Gra—" Hit.

"Leaves!” Throw.

"Gr—" Hit.

"Boom!" Throw.

Hit. "Grantaire!" Enjolras dropped the rake and ran toward Grantaire. He giggled -  _ Like a schoolgirl _ , Enjolras thought - and began to run from him. At first he hid behind a tree, but Enjolras reached out and tried to grab his shoulder. He hurried to the other side, where there was already a pile of leaves that Enjolras had laboriously created. As Enjolras approached, he kicked at her, and the whole pile flew in all directions. The wind had just risen, and he began to carry some leaves into every corner of the garden.

Blood was boiling in Enjolras. He inflated his cheeks, exhaled through his nostrils -  _ Like some angry bull in the arena, _ laughed in Grantaire's head - and ran. They began to chase around the garden. Before long, Enjloras grabbed Grantaire by the shoulder. He turned him against him and wanted to say something from his heart - so he didn't know what yet, but he knew he certainly wouldn't like it - but the brunette didn't want to give up so easily. He began to slide and tried to shake his hand. Enjolras therefore caught him with his second. Grantaire shoved him in, trying to push him away. This caused Enjolras to snuggle up to the elder and they started fighting.

It was Enjolras who eventually slipped on the wet mud, but it was Grantaire who began to lose. Although he had some experience with boxing, he went to practice several times a week, but he drank all the time and spent the evenings rather than quality training, spending on greasy food and in the arms of a new lover. Enjolras was suddenly better than him. He looked frail — thanks to his beautiful build and gorgeous, almost girlish face — but he was as strong as three men. Although he didn't practice as a brunette, he liked to run, go to yoga and dance at a young age. He did a few squats and push-ups every day. He carefully chose what he intended to eat and avoided alcohol in principle. What was hidden under his T-shirt was certainly not fragile - there were beautiful, golden, firm muscles that he kept in top condition.

Grantaire realized he had lost. His strength was waning, and so, before the blonde's strength silenced him, he shouted, "I'm giving up!"

"Finally," said Enjolras, still in a rather rough voice. "What the hell were you thi—"

He didn't finish it. Grantaire reached out to Enjolras and handed one fallen leaf behind his ear. Unlike everyone around them, it was dry and colored dark red. He shone directly in his blond hair. Enjolras blinked in confusion. Grantaire just smiled and still gasped, said, "You look like the prince of autumn!"

Enjolras dry swallowed. He looked Grantaire in the eye -  _ What's that shade of blue? _ Enjolras asked himself - and took a deep breath. Because of how they fought? Or because of how his heart suddenly pounded when the brunette said it?

Grantaire lay on the ground. His uniform was muddy and dirty. His hair was sticking out in all directions, with a few strands of small pieces of branches as well as a few leaves and grass. His face was red from laughter, adrenaline, and maybe a little from the winter outside. He kept his lips wet with his tongue and smiled. God, he was smiling so much. His joy lit up the eyes of a light he had never seen before.

And Enjolras? He knelt on his hips, clearly feeling his ass touch him in places he had never thought of. Until now. He kept saying in his head -  _ Don't move, don't move, don't move _ \- but then he started asking himself, why? Why can't he move and rub himself against him? It was not appropriate. But they were friends, physical contact is normal for them. Surely Grantaire wouldn't react to that. So why did it bother him so much? Why it drew blood to his face, which must have been even redder than Grantaire's.

The answer was simple -  _ I don't know, I don't know, I don't know _ .

Enjolras's fingers were clenched in Grantaire's uniform. He felt his heart pound. From what?

"Grain-"

"What's going on here?" They both winced and looked at the door where the director of the old man was standing. A deep furrow formed between his eyebrows and his forehead. He wasn't thrilled with what he saw.

"Sorry," Enjolras said, quickly releasing Grantaire and standing up. He tried to wipe the dirt off his knees, but it was useless. His uniform was all muddy. "It will not happen again."

"I hope so. Otherwise, I'll have to tell someone about your behavior. "

"It won't be necessary," Grantaire waved at him, leaning over his rake and starting to clean up immediately. "We were just taking a break."

"Then take a break when you're done.” They both nodded and the headmaster just sighed. He shook his head, said something like -  _ What a new generation _ . - and went back to the heat of the building.

Grantaire returned to work, but Enjolras remained standing. He reached for his ear, and as soon as he felt the leaf between his fingers, he slowly removed it and looked at it. It was really beautiful. How did Grantaire manage to find it among all those sad, muddy, dirty leaves? When actually? Did he plan it all the time?

The more he thought about it, the more his heart pounded. He tried to drop the leaf, return to his work, but he couldn't. He kept looking at it, examining it from all sides. Why was he so intrigued? Wasn't it possible that it was just because of what Grantaire said?  _ Prince of Autumn _ , he repeated his words in his head.

"Apollo?" Grantaire voice yanked Enjolras from his thoughts. He was leaning on a rake, one eyebrow raised. "You okay?"

"Of course," Enjolras replied, not really perceiving what he had asked. Grantaire just shrugged, began working and humming the melody of a song the blonde didn't even know.

However, if the brunette turned around, he would notice that Enjolras had hidden the leaf in the inside pocket of his uniform. Right at the heart. The leaf warmed his chest beautifully the whole time.


	23. Threadbare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second time it happened to me that I didn't get to write a today’s theme early enough, so I add it a little later than I would like. The story was supposed to be longer, mainly focused not only on Enjolras's, but also on Grantaire's view of the situation. Unfortunately, there was little time and I still had a translation. Even so, I hope you will still enjoy the story. :)
> 
> PS: I have a terrible weakness for the topic of "Friends with benefits". This is the second story of this kind to appear here, and I sincerely hope to write more. Because there are never enough of them! :D

"Oh, more, more,  _ more _ ." Grantaire's loud moans echoed inside the room. His order was heard. As his partner thrusted even harder, Grantaire moaned loudly again, dug his fingers into his back, and began to mumble something incomprehensible. The bed creaked a few times under the onslaught. Grantaire smiled. He remembered when the bed wasn't creaking, and when he fell into the duvets, he didn't feel any holes on their mattresses from their bodies. "Jesus, I think—" He didn't finish, arching his back and spraying his and his partner's bellies with his come.

" _ Ngh _ ," his partner whimpered incomprehensibly, pressed harder on him, and only thrusted once, twice, three times before he was finished and exhaled softly in his ear, " _ God _ ."

"You don't think it’s quite rude—" He shoved his partner in the shoulder to straighten up so he could look him in the eye, "—say  _ your  _ name?"

"Stop it, Grantaire," Enjolras replied, carefully pulling away from him and standing up. He carefully wrapped the condom, tossed it in the basket by the bed, and thought he had to throw the basket away. Ever since he and Grantaire began  _ this thing _ — which he still couldn't call "Friends with Benefits" when he didn't even consider him as his friend - it always gets full much faster. The closer the final exams at the Faculty of Law approached, the more frequent and longer Grantaire's visits became.

He sighed. He did it mainly to relax and not think about anything. He didn't want to spoil the evening, so he went to the closet, opened it, and pulled out a clean towel and a few handkerchiefs. "Here," he said only as he handed Grantaire handkerchiefs and he smiled gratefully at him.

There was a loud bang as he wiped his stomach. Enjolras turned to the window and looked out. The wind had been blowing and it was raining for some time. But now the wind was gaining momentum, and the sky lit up in silver a few times. A storm was approaching. "It will be a nourishing journey home," Grantaire sighed as he sat on the bed and looked out the window. "I need to go."

"You can sleep here if you want. My couch is free," Enjolras offered him.

"Really?" The brunette asked in surprise. It rarely happened after  _ their activities  _ that they would be together longer than necessary. For example, they had tea together or replenished their energy with sweet cookies, but they never spent much time together. Only a few times did Enjolras sleep at Grantaire apartment, when he was too tired from school, or Grantaire at Enjolras’ apartment, when he had a shift at work the next day at work that was closer to the leader's apartment than the artist's. "Thanks," he said with a smile.

"You can go take a bath." He handed him a towel, and the brunette just nodded. He took a clean towel from him, standing up, still naked, and went to the bathroom. He already knew Enjolras' apartment like his own. 

While Grantaire was taking a shower and singing out loud, Enjolras opened a window in the bedroom to ventilate the heavy, sweet air that always remained in the room after their nightly plays. It had an annoying smell. It always contracted his stomach. He went to the kitchen, boiled the water for tea, and prepared a couple of toasts for both of them. He turned on the television, switched to his favorite documentary channel, and when he bit into the first toast, Grantaire appeared in the doorway. "Wow, what smells so beautiful here?" He asked with a smile as he sat down next to Enjolras and picked up a second plate that lay ready on the table.

Enjolras swallowed quickly and asked, "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, this?" Grantaire asked innocently, pointing to a sweater that was too big for him. "I found it in your room. We dirtied my clothes up a bit, if you remember," he said with a mischievous smile and bit into the toast. It was a little burnt and maybe too salted, but he still liked it.

Enjolras couldn’t take his eyes away from Grantaire. He was wearing his old, long-worn sweater, which he had bought when he started college and forgot about it long ago. It used to be dark blue, but over time it faded and had a strange color that he didn't like much anymore. A few threads protruded from the sleeves, which reappeared each time he cut them. During one wash, he put it in a batch with his jeans and the sweater pulled out so big that it was big for him too. He put it down, and in fact he always thought he had to throw it out. He forgot about it.

And now Grantaire was wearing it. When it was big to Enjolras, it was clear that it would be for Grantaire as well. He was a bit wider, but mainly he was smaller. The sweater slid off his shoulder, revealing his white skin. He was so long that he had it under his ass, covering his most delicate part. Grantaire didn't seem to be wearing underwear.

Enjolras felt his stomach tighten again. For a long time now, every time after sex, his stomach became heavier and his abdomen began to ache strangely. Sometimes his intestines tightened. His stomach then ached and burned. Sometimes it sent a strange tremor into his hands, and he couldn't concentrate. He hated it. It started with the annoying, sweet smell at first. Then when he saw Grantaire leaving his apartment. In time, all he had to do was see the brunette getting dressed. Now he was in a state that he felt these unpleasant feelings every time he saw him sitting on the bed, wiping their mixed juices from his body. And today? He felt that feeling when he saw Grantaire in his clothes.

He was always uncomfortable with it. He hated it. Whenever he lost control of his body, he was nervous and irritated. But now something else has added to that feeling. He could feel it on his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. But what was that? Enjolras had no idea.

Grantaire's question tore him from his thoughts: "Do you mind? I'll take it off.” As proof of his words, he began to lift the hem of his sweater.

_ Yes, no underwear,  _ Enjolras replied to himself, saying, "No, good. I don't wear it anyway."

"Seriously? I thought that you wear it."

"Why?"

"Because it still smells wonderful like you."

And the feeling of losing control of his body was back.

They didn't say anything more. They both finished their dinner quietly, and Enjolras went to his bedroom and left Grantaire in the living room to enjoy some privacy. Unable to sleep, he was still marching around the room, wondering why he was feeling sick after  _ their actions _ .

Maybe he was sick?

No. He didn't have a fever, his throat wasn't scratching, he hadn't had a cold for a year.

Maybe his situation started to bother him and he would like them to be just acquaintances again, joined by a bunch of friends?

No. Every time they slept together, he felt satisfied and everything was pleasant.

So what was that annoying feeling?

He didn't know.

He had no idea how he fell asleep. An alarm clock woke him up in the morning. He turned it off at the first ring. He walked into the living room, but no one was there. Enjolras's blue sweater lay on the couch. No message. Grantaire left without saying goodbye. When Enjolras realized he was alone, his stomach ached again. He stroked his lower abdomen with his hand and frowned. He needed to figure out what it was.

Enjolras was one of the smarter men. He knew everything about history, he knew how to handle money, he understood politics and he could make decisions about important things. He liked to learn new things, he had a good job, he got along great with colleagues and friends. He was able to appreciate hard work as well as art. Yet he was one of those who never understood their own feelings. It bothered him. He didn't know how to deal with it when he was overwhelmed by fear, anger, despair, or anxiety. He experienced everything as if it were the only emotion he could feel. He feared how simply his emotions limited him. And so the older he got, the more he learned to control them. He kept repeating in his head a few breathing exercises his therapist had taught him; he carried a piece of paper and a pencil with him so that he could write out his feelings or, when no one saw him and he was sure that no one would know, he broke a few plates or shouted into his pillow. Everything was working.

Until now. The annoying feeling returned as soon as he saw Grantaire between the doors of his apartment. To drive it away, instead of greeting, he rushed to him and kissed him hungrily at his lips. Grantaire didn’t object. He let him push him into the bedroom, where the blond boy threw him into bed, ripped off all his clothes, and began to map every part of his body with his tongue. Grantaire moaned loudly, running his hands through Enjolras's thick hair and spreading his legs, waiting for their top. He came faster than they both expected, and so Grantaire, hypersensitive and with a few tears in his eyes, satisfied Enjolras with his hands and mouth. Enjolras thought of only one thing at a time -  _ Is it possible that Grantaire has always been so beautiful? _

As Enjolras came, they both fell on the bed side by side, Enjolras rose again without a word, picked up a new towel, tossed it at Grantaire with the words, "Couch is free," and disappeared into the living room. He had no idea why he had offered Grantaire to sleep here again. It was a quiet evening, the temperature was already quite low, but there wasn't still enough reason for the brunette to have to sleep here. However, Grantaire didn’t object, he took a happy shower and when he went to the living room to sit next to the blonde, he was wearing another of his sweaters. This time the dark orange he got from his mother and wore it only a few times. "It was lying at the table, so I took him. I have nothing else," the brunette defended himself. "Won't we play the new game you bought on PlayStation?”

Enjolras was glad that he was able to drive away the feeling in his stomach with his competitive competition. Still, it returned at the moment Grantaire fell asleep exhausted. In his sweater, snuggling against his blanket, sprawled on his couch. Without covering him or helping him twist into a better position, he went to his bedroom and tried to breathe a contracted stomach for hours.

It happened again. Again and again. Two months in a row.  _ Two months _ . Enjolras was beginning to have enough. He was glad that they had finally understood each other since they had begun their agreement six months ago. They knew each other for two years, and it took them a long time to get used to each other. One drunk kiss at a party at Bahorel's apartment changed everything. Their barriers fell, and when they helped each other came in Bahorel's shower as someone vomited into the toilet bowl beside them, they smiled at each other and finally —  _ finally  _ — they could talk normally together. Although they were still arguing at meetings, their friends were also amazed at how nice they started to get along. They even volunteered for one team at one of Jehan's events and played Activity against the others. The fact that their  _ friendship  _ \- Grantaire did call it that - was based on common kisses, touches and a few thrusts with the moaning of the other's name, the others didn't need to know.

But now everything was wrong again. Enjolras was nervous. He was glad that he finally felt comfortable with his friends. Whenever Grantaire was there, he felt annoyed and didn't want to spend time with them. But now? Every time he saw him, his stomach hurt and his heart pounded. When he began to laugh, his lungs lacked air. Each time he moaned his name and dug his fingernails into his shoulders, he came faster than usual.

But the worst was when Grantaire decided to wear his clothes. He never understood where he found another piece of his T-shirt or sweater, it all sounded the same —  _ "It was lying on your desk.", "I found it by the bed.", "You gave it to me with a towel, remember?" _ — but the feeling grew stronger and stronger. Recently, shortness of breath and dry mouth have been added to this. He must have done something about it.

"Hello, Enjolras, come in," Combeferre said with a smile as he dodged so that his best friend could enter his apartment. "You scared me a little with the message. Tell me, what's going on?”

Enjolras took off his shoes, hung his coat on a hanger, and walked with Combeferre into the living room, where they sat in armchairs directly opposite each other. "I described everything to you in the message," he replied.

“Too little for a diagnosis," Combeferre said with a smile. "The pressure in your stomach, do you have it after a certain meal?"

"I don’t think so."

"After milk? Or maybe white bread? ”

"No."

"So it probably won't be celiac disease." Combeferre put a finger to his chin. "Don't you have it after eating some vegetables or fruits?"

"It has nothing to do with food."

"Alright then. Have you started experimenting with alcohol?”

"You know I don't drink and I'm not going to change it."

"Didn't your doctor change your medication?"

"No."

"Um, when you go to the bathroom—"

"I don't think I have a sick gut or stomach," Enjolras said harshly. Immediately, he looked apologetically at Combeferre and smiled. "It simply came to notice when...  _ Something _ ."

"Something?" Combeferre asked cautiously. "Like a situation?" Enjolras just nodded. "And what?"

"Well," Enjolras began, clearing his throat. Nobody knew what was between him and Grantaire. It was a secret. Not that they were ashamed of what they were doing, but it felt better not to tell anyone about it. They knew that others would ask unnecessarily. It was fun.  _ Just  _ fun. Enjolras fidgeted. "Again," he whispered unconsciously.

"Again?”

Enjolras looked at Combeferre. He knew the look. He was worried. "I felt it again." He put his hands on his stomach and frowned. "When I remembered." He took a deep breath. "When I remembered it was just fun."

"What's  _ just fun _ ?" He asked, confused.

"Have sex with him."

Combeferre’s eyes widened and he made a surprised sound. "Oh, well, I didn't expect that… I didn't know you were dating anyone," he said, a little hurt. They had been friends for almost five years. They always said everything to each other. Enjolras knew all his partners, whether he dated them for only a month or a few years.

"We're not dating," Enjolras countered. "We're just...." He shrugged.

"Sleeping together?" Enjolras nodded. "I see. And the pain, it has something to do— ”

"With what we do? No. If it helps, he won't push anything into me. "

"I don't need to know," Combeferre said, laughing. 

"I thought it would help you diagnose me."

"It helped me if you'd rather go to the doctor," Combeferre said seriously. "If you're sleeping with someone and it's, as you called it,  _ just fun, _ there's a pretty good chance he might have infected you with something. I don't want to scare you. It can also be something petty, like a mild inflammation. But it would be better if an expert examined you."

"But I didn't have anyone before him," Enjolras said, thinking. "And I have the impression that after we kissed, he went to the doctor and wanted to be tested. And he’s clean. He had no one for two years. Until now. Me."

"Um, well," said Combeferre, but it was still clear in his voice that he didn't agree with him much. "If you're sure, then tell me a little when it hurts."

"Well, it started about two months ago. At first, I didn't like the smell of my bed and the whole room. I always had to go wash and ventilate everything. But then added to that was the fact that I felt it when he left. Then when he got dressed. And then all he had to do was smile at me and say something like  _ it was nice, so next time? _ And now…"

"And now?"

"I don't know why, but he's in the habit of wearing my clothes. He always makes excuses that his clothes are dirty. They aren’t. I think he’s just too lazy to dress after that and my clothes are big for him, so it's probably comfortable. I don't know, I've never been wearing someone else's clothes. Last time he said something like  _ It smells like you _ , and he blushed. I've never seen him blushing before. And that feeling was back. Unfortunately, it was so strong that my stomach heaved. I had to go to the bathroom. Fortunately, all I had to do was rinse with cold water, but it only helped for a while. And then—” Combeferre laughed. Enjolras looked at him and frowned. "-What's so funny?"

"Enjolras," Combeferre said cautiously, rising from his chair and walking over to his friend. "Do you feel it every time you're with him?"

"Yes."

"Has it always been that way?"

"No, I said it's been about two months now."

"And how long have you slept together?"

"About half a year."

"Um, have you known each other longer?"

"If you're trying to get who it is from me, I won't tell you."

"I don't care," Combeferre said truthfully, sitting on the edge of the chair where Enjolras was sitting. "Do you know how much Jehan likes to talk about love at first sight?" Enjolras just nodded. "Not all relationships start like this. In truth, most of them definitely don't start like this. Relationships start strangely - by acquaintance, friendship, maybe over time by love and dating then. But there are times when you get used to a new person for so long that you know you will never be friends. And do you know why?” Enjolras shook his head. "Because you just know you'll never be friends. Because you're compatible a little differently. "

"I don’t understand you."

"Enjolras, have you thought you fell in love with this boy?"

Oh well, Enjolras didn't think about it.

As soon as Combeferre said that, everything began to fit together. As if he needed the last piece of the puzzle to complete his work. When he realized this, he began to blink in confusion and his heart pounded. Combeferre had to make him herbal tea and watch a documentary about the French Revolution with him to calm down a bit.

In the evening, as he was leaving Combeferre, he wrote to Grantaire to come and see him. He needed to think of something else now. Combeferre's words kept ringing in his head. Is it really possible that he fell in love? But how could he? After all, they were so different He couldn't figure out anything they had in common. Could it not be just a desire? But why would he feel it until now? After so many months of sleeping together for hours?

When he saw Grantaire waiting at the front door, the feeling was back. He gritted his teeth, walked angrily to the brunette, grabbed his sleeve, and pulled him into the elevator. He pressed him against the wall, began stroking his pants with his hands and kissed his lips hungrily on the neck. "Wow, someone’s nervous today," Grantaire laughed between moans. As soon as the elevator reached the sixth floor, Enjolras pushed into Grantaire, threw him against his door, and began kissing him. He tried to find the keys in his pocket, which now seemed too slippery and small. Grantaire, meanwhile, began stroking his hair and back. When Enjolras finally unlocked, they stormed down the hall, slammed the door behind them, and didn't bother to enter the bedroom. For the first time, while they slept together, they had sex in a room other than the bedroom.

And they both enjoyed it. Enjolras engulfed animalism, Grantaira was playful. They touched each other, stroked each other, kissed each other. When it was all over, they lay wordless on the cold floor for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling. "Can I take a shower again?" Grantaire asked as he ran his hands through his thick, black hair.

Enjolras studied him for a moment, then finally replied, "Of course." Grantaire smiled at him and went to the bathroom. Enjolras lay on the ground the whole time Grantaire took a shower.

When Grantaire came out of the bathroom, he had a towel tied around his hips. He wanted to take his clothes, which lay scattered all over the hall, but he found no piece. He looked around the room, trying to figure out where he had gone. "Apollo, please, where are my clothes?"

"In the washing machine. They were dirty," Enjolras told him from the living room.

"Good. And what then-"

"I prepared something for you in the bedroom."

"Oh, all right, thanks," he said with a smile as he opened the bedroom so he could take Enjolras's clothes. It was a strange feeling to wear the things of someone who he was so attracted to. He never liked it. He always bothered when one of his partners pulled out his favorite T-shirt or sweatshirt, but now that he was finally dating someone higher, he understood why they were doing it. It was nice. It replaced a warm embrace he had never felt from Enjolras.

He sighed and walked to the bed. He was about to reach for the T-shirt that lay on the bed, but he noticed there was a small paper next to it. It was written on it -  _ Friend _ . His gaze focused on the pillow where another piece of clothing lay. Enjolras sweater. His favorite sweater. Shaggy, warm. Dark red. Enjolras took good care of it. His grandmother knitted it for him, it was the last gift she had ever given him before she died. Enjolras always wore it in the winter and was very careful that nothing happened to it. There was also a piece of paper next to it. But something else was written on it -  _ Partner _ .

Grantaire's heart pounded. Did Enjolras really write a  _ partner  _ there? Did he mean that they could —  _ No, this… I’m dreaming right _ , he told himself, reaching for his T-shirt. It was nice, soft, cotton. But it didn't smell like Enjolras. He had to wear it only rarely. His eyes slid back to the sweater, which shone directly on the white pillow.  _ Or not? _ he asked himself, picking up a sweater and a piece of paper with a small lettering: _ I'll explain everything _ .

Enjolras was sitting at the couch, his laptop on his lap, replying to Feuilly’s questions about another meeting of the  _ Les Ámis _ , when the door said, "Apollo?" He freaked out. His heart pounded and his fingers twitched for a moment. His stomach and intestines tightened. Several butterflies flew in his lower abdomen. Blood began to boil in his ears. Grantaire stood between the doors, wearing -  _ yes _ , his beloved red sweater. "Well, I made my choice," he said with a smile, closing behind him and sitting down on the couch. Far enough from the blond, but still close enough to kiss him at any time. "Can I demand that explanation now?"

Enjolras set the laptop aside and took a deep breath. He looked Grantaire in the face, and when he saw him smiling broadly at him, he returned the smile. He nodded and began the speech he had been practicing for several hours in his head: "It started about two months ago..."


	24. Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course! What else can you write about in the topic of "Crush", which can be so easily understood as the slang term "being in love"? Sure. About unrequited love!

"Guys, would you come to me today?" Feuilly asked all his friends before the  _ Les Ámis _ meeting began. No one objected. The evenings at Feuilly's home were famous - they always watched the latest best movies, ate delicious food, laughed a lot or played games.

"We'd love to come," Enjolras said for all of them, smiling sweetly at Feuilly. He returned the smile and then devoted himself to his work. Today, he decided to take the floor after Combeferre regarding the salary of unskilled workers. The blond didn't take his eyes off him the whole time. He listened to his every word, perceived every sentence, noticed every gesture. When Feuilly finished speaking, he and the others applauded softly.

"I have to go, but boys - evening?" He asked once more, and everyone confirmed it in unison. But each of them noticed how urgent Feuilly sounded. Apparently he had news for them that he needed to tell them immediately. Everyone imagined something different, but it was clear that Enjolras was the only one who imagined something romantic.

It was no secret that this handsome, innocent, and sometimes cold leader had more than just friendly feelings for the redhead. Feuily never commented on it, and he didn't seem to know. He considered everything Enjolras did for him a friendly gesture. And so Enjolras called it that. He didn't feel like talking about how his heart pounded every time he felt his cologne; or how nervous he was when they were left alone in the room; and he didn't want to mention at all how in the evenings he imagined cuddling in front of the television and watching the French comedies of the 1960s that they both loved so much.

Probably that was why Enjolras was the one who was most looking forward to Feuilly’s news. He finished the meeting a little earlier, helped Jehan pack all the papers and took with Combeferre the last empty glasses to the bar. He pushed them discreetly, but each of them felt the pressure of his hands and the cold look on their back. Everyone always chuckled at it and let it be.

"You're here!" Feuilly shouted excitedly as he opened the door to his apartment. He swerved to allow everyone to come in, and as they took off their shoes and coats, he went into the kitchen. His friends, meanwhile, walked into the living room and sat down on the sofas, armchairs, and floor. As always, home-made snacks were prepared on the table, which Courfeyrac already started to eat. "I'm glad you all arrived," Feuilly said with a wide smile as he walked back to the living room, a tray of ten glasses of champagne in his hands. He took two glasses in his hand and motioned for the others to take one as well.

"What are we celebrating?" Bahorel asked.

"This looks like something important," Courfeyrac said curiously.

"What about the two glasses?" Jehan asked, examining Feuilly nervously pacing from one foot to the other.

"Is Isabelle here?" Joly asked excitedly, remembering Feuilly's girlfriend he had introduced to them two months ago. The redhead just nodded, and his smile widened even more. As soon as Combeferre heard her name, he straightened on the sofa and adjusted his shirt. He knew that one of the basic rules of friendship was -  _ Never do anything with your friend's girlfriend _ \- but still, every time Isabelle saw him, he wanted to impress her. Her beautiful, auburn hair and piercing blue look attracted him. He would never try anything on her, he respected that she was dating and to everything with one of his most loyal and best friends - but the occasional, flirtatious looks and a few compliments never hurt anyone, did they?

"I'm here," replied a girl who appeared behind Feuilly and smiled broadly at everyone. "I'm glad to see you again. How long has it been, three weeks?”

"Wow. You're starting to count how long you haven't seen us. We had to grow on your heart," Courfeyrac laughed.

"Maybe," she didn't deny his assumption, and Courfeyrac made a sound that clearly meant —  _ Oh, she's sweet!  _ "Apparently it must be something big today that he invited you."

"Well, I hope so," Bossuet admitted.

Everyone looked at Feuilly. He took a deep breath and said, "Isabelle, boys... There's something I'd like to tell you today. I wanted you to be there because… Even though I never had a family, I felt like I always had one. You have always quarreled like good brothers. You were able to give me advice in life, like fathers. Or take care of me when I was at my worst, like mothers taking care of their child. I wanted to thank you for everything you have done for me so far. And that by being at something that is very important to me and deciding my future— ” He turned to Isabelle. "—Well, not just mine future—" He handed Isabella a glass. As soon as she took it, he knelt down, pulled a velvet box from his pocket with his free hand, and began, "—Isabelle, we're together for a short time, but I can't imagine that anyone other than you would grow old by my side. So tender, beautiful, charming, smart and a nice girl. The one I have always dreamed of is facing me today. And I hope she becomes my wife—” He opened the lid of a box with a gold ring glittering, strewn with white and blue stones. "—Isabelle Petit, will you marry me?"

Before he could finish, Isabelle cried with happiness. Big tears ran down her cheeks, and she was still smiling. She tried to cover her face, but she didn't want to lose a single second of Feuilly's confession. "Yes," she whispered weakly through her tears, and Feuilly put the ring on her, stood up, and hugged her tightly.

"That's beautiful!" Jehan shouted first, and immediately moved to the couple so he could congratulate them.

"Damn," Bossuet moaned, pulling twenty euros from his pocket.

"I knew he would get married first," Bahorel laughed as he took his money from Bossuet.

"Congratulations," Combeferre said as he drank from a glass, and even though he liked Isabelle, he felt how much he was happy for them. He had known Feuilly for a long time, and once he saw them together, he knew they would be engaged one day.

"So, are we going to start planning a bachelor party?" Courfeyrac suggested, earning a dig at his rib by Feuilly. "I meant it well," he tried to defend himself as he hugged him and congratulated him quietly.

The only one who didn't congratulate them was Enjolras. He stood at the table, a glass of champagne in his hand that was shaking. Like his fingers. Like his palm. Like his whole hand. Enjolras tried to breathe, but his whole throat tightened, his lungs unable to suck in air properly, and his heart pounding strangely calmly and strongly. His head was suddenly empty. He couldn't think of anything to say. So he just finished opening and closing his mouth, like fish on dry land.

"Enjolras?" Feuilly looked at the blonde and blinked in confusion. "Aren't you happy...?" He asked cautiously as he took a step closer.

"N-no, of  _ course  _ I'm happy," he said at once, drank the whole glass in one gulp and snorted. He was never a big fan of alcohol. It burned his throat and lifted his stomach. "I just don't know what to say. E-everyone has already said everything."

"Oh," Feuilly said, associating Enjolras's nervousness with never knowing much about how to behave in purely interpersonal interactions. "A hug would be nice…?" He suggested as Jehan and Joly admire Isabella's ring in the meantime.

"T-that's good," Enjolras whispered, wanting to take a step back. However, he came across a sofa. He felt as if someone had crammed him into a narrow space. He didn't like it. His legs began to shake, as did his palms. "I-I'll just g-go for some f-fresh air." He pointed to the balcony and disappeared outside the door before Feuilly could say anything.

As he let the cold wind lean into his body and his hot skin cool to the night's temperature, he exhaled. His chest was still constricted and his lungs could hold nothing but a few shallow breaths, but at last his ears stopped whistling. Wait. When did it actually start? Now? Or when Feuilly asked them to come to him? Or was it the whole time he realized how he felt about Feuilly?

He put his hand on his chest and frowned. There were many people, things, animals and events that Enjolras loved. He knew what  _ love  _ was. But he didn't like giving it to everyone. He took love as a weakening of the mind, a way to easily manipulate someone. He didn't want to get into her clutches and carefully chose everything he let into his world.

But Feuilly came like a shockwave. As soon as he first saw him at the door of the  _ Musain Café _ , everything ceased to exist for him. He saw only his red hair, beautiful blue-brown eyes, a freckled face. He could smell his cologne smelling of burnt wood and hard work. He saw his smile handing out to everyone around him. He couldn't take his eyes off him. Even though they weren't together, he still got into his thoughts, remembering how they talked together, how great he looked in that perfectly fitting shirt, how beautiful his eyes shone. Over time, he began to chase him even in his dreams, and once, by accident, his fingers touched and he felt his warmth, he knew that he had completely fallen into the emotion.

It wasn't the first time Enjolras had fallen in love. No. In high school, he fell in love with the leader of the swimming team, Julien, who, due to his tall, sexy nature, had a very gentle character and weakness for sweets. In college, he liked the history professor, Mr. Durand, who was almost forty, but he still looked like a young man and basically went to school only on a motorcycle. They both had something in common - intelligence. That always attracted Enjolras. But they were also beautiful, each in his own way — Julien was a brown-haired with emerald eyes, while Durand was a brown-haired with gray eyes.

And now Feuilly. He had fallen in love only three times in his twenty-five years of his life, but only this was so strong that he was willing to take a step. But Isabelle overtook him. Beautiful, gorgeous, clever Isabelle, who worked with Feuilly and had been dancing together in dance class for some time. He should have known that when she suddenly appeared in front of the door of the Musain Café every time Feuilly left the meeting, it was definitely not a friendly encounter. He was sorry when they got together. But he had never felt jealousy, anger, or any other negative emotion for a couple in whom there was someone he loved so deeply.

But now? He wanted to hit them both. Yelling at them. Curse them.

He didn't understand it.

He didn't know how long he had been on the balcony. He sat in a chair, his head bowed, staring at the stars. Today, since the beginning of autumn, the first night has been cloudless. The stars shone as brightly as the full moon. His eyelids were heavy. He wasn’t sleepy. Just tired. Tired of all those feelings.

Suddenly something cold touches his face. He winced. He looked beside him where Grantaire stood, a glass of wine in one hand and a poured chilled whiskey in the other, which he wiped against Enjolras's hot face. Enjolras drank whiskey only when he wanted to be alone and forget about everything. "Thanks," he said softly as he took the glass from him and sipped immediately. As he expected - bitter and strong.

Grantaire rested his elbows on the railing, sipped his wine, and looked vaguely into the distance. He usually smiled and spoke, but now he preferred to keep quiet and have a neutral expression on his face. He knew that Enjolras needed peace. He liked when someone was next to him, but he didn't need to say anything.

Still, twenty minutes after the cold wind was blowing against them and they heard the owl honking in the distance, the brunette asked, "Okay?"

Enjolras sipped from his glass and sighed. "I think yes."

"Quite a shock, huh?"

"Yes. But I'm happy. For him. For both of them. They are great people and they should—”

"Enjolras," Grantaire stopped, and the blond looked at him. He usually addressed him as  _ Apollo  _ — he came up with the stupid nickname just hours after they met — or even liked to call him a  _ leader _ , but only in extreme distress when something serious was happening or he needed Enjolras to listen to him, he addressed him by his name. "You don't have to lie to me."

Enjolras took a breath to tell him that he certainly wasn't lying - he really wanted Feuilly to be happy - but he knew Grantaire was right. He wanted him to be happy. But with him. To recognize his touches, and to talk about his intelligence, and to remember their shared experiences. This hurt him.

Enjolras exhaled loudly and just said, "But his happiness is more important to me."

"Um," Grantaire growled as he finished his glass and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. "Do you want?"

"No thank you."

"A cigarette goes well with whiskey."

"Isn't a cigar better?"

"Wow, you're good at vices you don't run," Grantaire laughed as he tucked the box back in his pocket. Eventually he changed his mind. If he had the opportunity to talk to Enjolras for at least a while, he would not be distracted by smoking.

"I know a lot of things."

“Even a love?"

Enjolras looked into Grantaire's eyes to find something ridiculous, but instead saw only sincere interest. He blinked and smiled. "…Also. Although I don't have that much experience in it."

"But everytime it hurts a lot, doesn't it?"

"Well—" How it ended with Julien? After several nights together, keeping their relationship a secret, he found that Julien was just using him. He didn't want to admit his orientation in front of anyone, so when his friends became interested in why he was meeting with Enjolras so much, he told them he did it because he felt sorry for Enjolras. Enjolras heard it and immediately ended it with him. He and Mr. Durand met in the library, several times a week, and when he suggested that they go to his house once just before they closed, he refused. He knew what Enjolras was interested in, but Mr. Durand  _ didn’t sail in that direction _ , as he aptly named it. And now Feuilly, who had decided after half a year dating the girl of his dreams, to marry her and never listen to Enjolras's confession. It seemed that the more loves he had, the more tragic they were for his heart. "-Yes."

"I know that, too, so trust me - it will pass."

"I don't know if it'll be that easy when — Wait,  _ you know that _ , too?" Grantaire just nodded. "You had…"

"Crush on someone? Of course."

"When?"

"Now."

"What?"

Grantaire smiled at him. "I've been crushing over one boy for a few years, Apollo—" The nickname was back. Grantaire was serious, but he tried to sound good. But Enjolras noticed his cheeks flush and his fingers tapping impatiently on the railing. "- he doesn’t know. I'm glad for that."

"Why?"

"Because if he knew, everything would go wrong between us."

"Why do you think?"

"Apollo, God," the brunette laughed and sighed. "Look at me. He wouldn't want me. No, don't try to tell me that's not the case now. I know he wouldn't want me because I  _ heard  _ that."

"It happened to me, too," Enjolras said, remembering Julien. "It hurts a lot."

"Yeah," Grantaire said, tilting his head so he could look at the stars. "Pretty much." After a moment, he smiled and added, "But I'm not mad at him for that. You know, he has a right to be with whoever he wants. My feelings aside. I decided to fall in love. He’s innocent. And so I take it. I'd rather see how happy he is with someone than be unhappy with me.” Grantaire looked at Enjolras, who was looking at him with interest. Even in the darkness, he saw his beautiful eyes gleam blue. "You feel the same way, don't you?"

Enjolras nodded. "Mainly that he will be happy."

"Exactly. I don't care about anything else. Then I probably wouldn't love him much, would I? It would only be a selfish obsession to own him."

"Oh," Enjolras breathed. He would never have believed he would say that, but what Grantaire had just said made too much sense. How would his confession help if it just destroyed Feuilly's opportunity to be happy?

Grantaire was no longer standing by the railing when he wanted to ask the brunette if he could help him in any way. He walked to the door and wanted to go back into the living room to join the engagement celebrations. "Grantaire," he stopped him before opening the door. "You know…"

"Yes?"

_ Who is the one you love? _ "Is it ever possible to stop feeling this way?"

"I'll let you know when I succeed," he told him with a sad smile and walked back into the warmth of the apartment.

Enjolras sat on the balcony for a few more minutes, but this time he didn't think about anything. He finished his cold whiskey.


	25. Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last week alone, I have seen the same fairy tale 15 times. My wonderful daughter has one addiction - she finds a fairy tale that we play over and over until she gets tired of it and finds another one. This was why we played Zootopia for a month before her interest shifted to the fairy tale Tangled and then on Finding Nemo. I dare say that I could easily recite most of the fairy tales from Disney and Pixar out of my head. :D

Feuilly has been working since he was fifteen. After a few hours at school, he went to work, which over time became his only hobby. When he left the orphanage at the age of eighteen to stand on his own two feet, he finished school and just started working. When he was twenty-two, he met  _ Les Ámis _ . Everyone, younger or older than him, studied or boasted of degrees. They never made fun of him with their higher education, and they didn't care that Feuilly only had elementary school. They loved him as a human being and didn’t care about his education.

Until the one day when he confessed to Enjolras that he, sometimes, felt sorry that he never had the opportunity to teach children. He loved them, he always went to the little ones in the orphanage to read them fairy tales. When most of the children went to bed with fevers, he took care of them. He liked to invent various games with them, and many educators told him that one day he would be a great father. But he never considered marrying and having children. He loved all children equally and wanted to give them the love right away. Therefore, he admired the work of teachers and somewhere deep in his heart he realized that it was his dream profession.

Enjolras offered to help him finish high school to get into college. He refused at first, thanking him for his offer and telling him that what he had now was enough for him. But once he went to work around the playground, where two ladies took care of ten children, who laughed and shouted at each other, something moved in him. He stood by the fence, looking at the children for a moment as if each belonged to him. He went to the meeting that day with one thought -  _ I will be a teacher and I will do everything for it. _

It took a long time. Enjolras was joined by their closest friends, who all offered to help him. It was hard to go back to school after years. One simply forgets how to learn. Moreover, the older he got, the more he seemed to forget. But when he took over his bachelor's degree in pedagogy, he knew it was worth it. He smiled in all directions, almost jumping with joy. When he left the ceremonial hall, all his friends were waiting for him. They hugged him, congratulated him and had the best lunch of his life with him.

A master's degree was waiting for Feuilly. He felt lighter, maybe a little more relaxed, and finally had time to start doing what he loved. Teach children. He ended up in his job, where they made him the most beautiful farewell, and his boss even cried and told him that he had just lost his best worker; and began working as a kindergarten teacher. The salary was higher, the work more pleasant and everyone liked him. At first, some parents looked at him strangely - it was not so common for a man to teach such young children - and perhaps they were afraid of his ulterior motives - which he really didn’t have - but over time they discovered that he was "just" a man who was born to teach kids.

It wasn’t uncommon for one of the  _ Les Ámis  _ to occasionally appear in kindergarten. Mostly Enjolras, who brought Feuilly something good to eat, when he had to look after some children into the evening because their parents stayed at work longer than they intended; or Jehan, who, thanks to his creative soul, had many ideas for various artistic exercises.

Today, however, everyone came to the kindergarten to see it. And for one reason only. Because of a lost bet.

Feuilly stood in the middle of the largest room in the school, which served as a playroom. Today, however, all the toys were carefully cleaned. There was a podium by the window, which was covered with a canvas. It moved every now and then. Someone seemed to be standing behind it. Feuilly lined up the fifteen children so that everyone could see and have enough space. Two other educators, along with Combeferre, Grantaire, and Bahorel, stood at the door or leaned against the wall, overlooking the entire space.

Feuilly looked at his watch, smiled, and clapped. "Children! Can you hear me well?” The children shouted in agreement,  _ yes _ . "First of all, I would like to commend you for how great you look. You really cared about those costumes!” All the children began to look around and smile. Some of the girls adjusted the crowns on their heads, one of the boys adjusted a carefully tied bow tie, one girl, disguised as a four-headed dragon, stroked three green heads folded in her lap. "I’m glad that you follow our themes. I would say that today's _ fairytale day _ is overcoming even the spooky one!” All the children laughed. "And do you know what would be appropriate for a day like this?"

"Fairy tales!" Suggested a little girl disguised as Little Red Riding Hood.

"Reading?" Asked the little boy, who had been disguised as Peter Pan.

"Villains!" Cried the girl in Ursula's costume from The Little Mermaid.

"Everything you said is, of course, correct. But for now, I think we could welcome—” He took a dramatic pause, the children on his lips waiting for him to say, “—princesses!” The children shouted happily, and Feuilly turned to the stage. "So, princesses, show yourself to us," Feuilly said encouragingly, walking to his friends and educators.

"Have you seen them?" Grantaire asked curiously as Feuilly approached him.

"No," Feuilly replied. "But I believe it will be great."

"I couldn't even sleep," Bahorel admitted with a laugh.

"Can I take a picture?" Asked Combeferre, who had long ago aimed his phone at the podium.

"You must," Bahorel replied. "I will remind them of this for a long time to come."

"Yes, princesses! Where are you?” Feuilly asked urgently. "Children, they are probably nervous. You have to encourage them a little! When I say  _ now _ , you start screaming out loud -  _ princesses, come out _ , okay? "

"Yes!"

"Great. So - three, two, one, now— "

"Princesses, come out!" All the children shouted at once, as Grantaire covered his sensitive ears.

The canvas shook. A moment of silence. Suddenly, a long, blue sleeve appeared from behind the screen. "Did someone call me?" Someone asked behind the screen, and after a while a tall man appeared in front of them, with a black wig and a long, blue dress with yellow ruffles. "Did anyone call Snow White?" He asked the children, and they all began to wave.

"It suits Courfeyrac!" Bahorel shouted, laughing out loud.

"Thank you, gentleman in the back!" He replied, straightening proudly. Courfeyrac was the only one to take the lost bet with easinest. He never minded being the center of attention. He wasn’t ashamed. He would be able to undress in the middle of the square for someone, and the police officers who wanted to arrest him for municipal outrage would be able to say that it was for the  _ human good _ . And they would let him go. It was strange how gracefully he moved in the costume, perhaps as if he had ever done so before. As he spun and his skirt lifted a little, the boys noticed that he was wearing red heels. He walked in them without major problems. "But I'm not alone," Courfeyrac said, turning to the screen. That didn't even help. Courfeyrac took a deep breath and clapped. "I'm not alone here," he said a little louder.

"There's a human rights activist!" Jehan shouted as he jumped out from behind the screen. His cheeks and ears were all red, sweating. He could be seen as ashamed. But as soon as one of the girls saw her favorite princess, she jumped to her feet and her eyes lit up. "I-I'm Me-Merida," Jehan introduced himself in a nervous voice, adjusting a strand of hair that still fell to his forehead. He was wearing a long, emerald dress that looked heavy from the point of view. He didn't have a wig, he just washed his hair and let it dry in the sun. He was naturally curly and his hair protruded in all directions. "And I brought the best dancer with me!" He waited for nothing and uncovered the curtain behind which the other boy was hiding.

"Hello kids," Bossuet greeted them in a deep voice, and the boys laughed.

"Too bad Joly can't see this," Grantaire laughed, remembering their friend who had a weekend shift at the hospital.

Bossuet wore, otherwise on his bare head, a blond wig with a blue headdress. Being one of the few to have his ears pierced, he put long, silver earrings in his lobes, which he took from his girlfriend Musichetta's bedside table. The long blue dress also belonged to her. She herself found a few more beads on them and sewed a few flowers. He was barefoot. "I'm Cinderella. Did any of you see my shoes? I probably lost them while dancing.” The children looked around to see if they could see the glass shoes in which Cinderella was dancing at the ball with the prince.

As the children searched for a good five minutes, Grantaire interrupted, "Are you only three?"

Courfeyrac smiled broadly at him from the podium and shook his head. "We are not. There's another princess!” The children stopped searching and opened their mouths in surprise. They began to whisper to each other what kind of princess it might be. "She's a princess with the longest hair in the kingdom!"

"Rapunzel!" One of the girls shouted and jumped to her feet. "It's Rapunzel!"

"Yes!" Courfeyrac shouted in agreement, showing her a thumbs-up. "Come on, Rapunzel." No one came out from behind the screen. "Rapunzel." Nothing. Courfeyrac turned to the canvas. He frowned. "Oh, children, Rapunzel is a little nervous of us," he laughed, walking over to where everyone was coming from. He uncovered him and looked behind him. Enjolras stood there, tapping his feet on the ground, his cheeks swollen, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look happy. "Shh, Enjolras."

The blond looked at his friend and inflated his face even more. "What is it?" He snapped softly.

"Come on, come on, kids are waiting."

"I'm not going."

"Enjolras."

"I'm not going," he said a little rougher and frowned.

"Do it. Don't spoil it. "

"What should I spoil? This is terrible nonsense! ”

"It is fun."

"It's not."

"Enjolras."

"I knew why I shouldn't play the game with you. It always turns out like…  _ this _ !” He said in a rough voice and looked at himself. He didn't know how his friends had done, but he forced him to wear a long, pink dress with gold embroidery. His sleeves were translucent and his muscles were visible. He had a wig on his head that reached under his ass. A long, wide, heavy braid with freshly picked flowers, which Jehan brought with his costume in the morning. He felt - embarrassed.

"Jesus, don't turn it into a drama. Those kids won't remember it anyway."

"There will be photos of it."

"Maybe."

"Our friends will remember that."

"They will also remember it at our funeral. And what? We also have a lot of dirt on them."

But Enjolras still stood his ground. "No."

"You are terrible. That's how you spoil it for children. "

"Courfeyrac."

"And for Feuilly."

Enjolras stared at him in blue. "Courfeyrac," he warned him.

"He tried so hard to make the children happy. And now he will disappoint them. He wanted to show them four princesses, but only three arrived. And he promised that much to the little girl who loves Rapunzel. He promised to make her very happy today. And he won't," Courfeyrac said in a sad voice, giving his typical, doggy look. "What a pity he would lose the trust of such a little girl who saw in him—"

"All right, fine," said Enjolras. He threw his hands in the air defeated. It was just for the moment. He can do it.

Courfeyrac smiled triumphantly. "Great! Come on.” Enjolras just sighed and shrugged. He walked next to Courfeyrac, who took his wrist and uncovered the canvas for the children to look at. Enjolras didn’t know what he saw at first — how the children smiled at him; the way Bossuet and Jehan watched his long hair, or the way their other friends stood by the wall, laughing at them.

Enjolras grunted weakly. He walked to the podium and focused more on the children. "I'm Rapunzel," he said coldly, and the children waved goodbye.

"So children, we're here to entertain you. Do you have any questions or tasks for us?” Courfeyrac asked happily.

An hour followed, during which the children asked the princesses, for example, what they like to eat or how they like to spend their free time. One girl wanted to show Merida’s shooting a bow, and everyone watched admiringly as Jehan hit all the stuffed animals. One boy asked if it was true that Snow White understood animals, and Courfeyrac came to a large aquarium dramatically, pretending to hear what the fish were saying, and then telling them a fictional story about a secret treasure in the nursery garden. One boy asked if he could dance with Cinderella, and Bossuet, with both of his left legs, almost fell on him in one turn.

Everyone laughed. The children were happy. The boys and educators at the wall also had fun. At first they laughed a little at them, but when they saw how even the most silent child could laugh or talk, it seemed nice to them. Combeferre was already taking pictures just to show the boys on stage how great they were.

Lunch time was approaching. The boys had only the last few minutes ahead of them before they could go back to the locker room and tear off the princess's dress. One girl who loved Rapunzel kept her eyes on Enjolras. He stood on the stage, answering only one question at a time. His gaze was cold, his face neutral. The children felt that he didn’t like it here, so they didn’t ask him anything or involve him in anything. Enjolras was grateful to them for that.

"Lunch will be served shortly. So kids, any last wishes?”

The girl knew this was her only chance. She raised her hand, and when Courfeyrac smiled fondly at her, she said, "I-I want Rapunzel to sing." Enjolras winced. He looked at the girl and rolled his eyes. He? And sing? He sang for the last time - he didn't even know when. Maybe in high school? In music class? He didn't count when he sang in the shower. Everything sounded good there. But sing in front of children? People? His friends, what will they tease him about for the rest of his lives? No. He just couldn't.

"Um," he began, trying to find a suitable excuse.

Courfeyrac realized he didn't want to. "You know, Rapunzel is a little sick, so she doesn't know if she can sing."

"Please," the girl said in the sweetest voice, that even Enjolras could feel his heart pounding.

"I really don't know," Enjolras said truthfully.

"Sing!" Bahorel shouted.

"You can do it!" Grantaire joined him.

"I'm not sure," Enjolras said, piercing them with his eyes. "I haven't sung since they crowned me," he tried to convince the girl that it was definitely not a good idea.

"Please," the girl said again.

"Please," other children added.

"Please!" Combeferre shouted, smiling broadly.

Enjolras frowned at him. "You too?" He asked in surprise. He expected Bahorel and Grantaire to make fun of him. Maybe he knew Feuilly wouldn't forgive a note here and there. But Combeferre? His great friend who knew how much he hated making fun of him? His great friend who always stood by his side and protected him? His great friend who— "Will you join me?" - sang  _ so  _ well.

"W-what?" Combeferre asked in surprise. Everyone looked at Enjolras.

"I forgot to introduce you, children. This is Eugene's younger brother.” Enjolras pointed to Combeferre, all the children turning to him.

"What?" Combeferre asked in a high voice.

"You don't have to keep it a secret," Enjolras said with a smile. "Eugene's brother, children, sings beautifully. Even better than Eugene. And I'll be happy if he sings with me. Because the only thing I remember is the duet we sang together at my 18th birthday party.”

Combeferre wanted to object, but the children gave him no room. They immediately began to persuade him to start singing. Bahorel joined the children and pushed him to the podium next to Enjorlas before the younger one realized what was happening. Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Jehan sat among the children and began to look at the stage. "Enjolras," Combeferre whispered as he stood beside him. "What-"

"For making fun of me," he whispered, taking a deep breath. "Can we?" He asked the children, and they all nodded. "So…  _ All those days watching from the windows _ …" Enjolras's voice spread across the room. The blond was relieved to hear that even after so many years he sounded quite good and was able to maintain his tone. He sat the song a little lower anyway, because he was sure he couldn't sing the high parts of the chorus.

Combeferre just sighed, but laughed. He wouldn't expect this from his friend. But he knew he actually deserved it a little. As his time approached, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath. " _ All those days chasing down a daydream. _ " Everyone in the room opened their mouths in surprise. Combeferre's voice was professional. Gently, yet not faintly. Manly, yet not roughly. It was clear that he sang several times a day. He sang the chorus almost professionally.

The moment was approaching when they were to sing together. Combeferre, finally relaxed, and Enjolras, perhaps a little excited that everyone liked his voice; they held hands, approached each other, and looked into each other's eyes. " _ And at last I see the light _ ," they began to sing, and everyone sighed happily at their common harmony. As if they were still singing like that. " _ Now that I see you _ ," they sang the last rhyme of the song, and there was a loud applause from the room.

They both smiled at each other and wanted to separate when Bahorel suddenly shouted, "Kiss!" They turned in surprise to him, who whispered something like — _ I'm sorry _ — but he didn't have time to say more. Following his example, the children began to chant: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” When they turned to their friends, they saw Courfeyrac and Bossuet join the children. Jehan just laughed, and Feuilly already had a cell phone in his hand to record this memorable moment. One of the educators had pink cheeks and hid her face in her hands, the other just laughed and waited for the boys to react.

Combeferre and Enjolras looked at each other. They knew each other for a long time. But they never felt more than friendship for each other. So they didn't need to kiss. Once a year, they kissed on the cheek during New Year's celebrations. But that was all. "If the kids want it," Combeferre said, shrugging. It was just a kiss. Gentle lip wiping. A second in his life that he would never erase, but he wouldn’t remember in a few minutes.

But Enjolras was a little more reserved. Not that he felt weird or felt embarrassed, but he— "Enough!" —dated Grantaire. They all turned to Grantaire, who had round eyes and ears all red. "Um, well," he began nervously, swallowing dryly. "Like, I don't care, I shouldn't care, yes, after all—"

"Children, it's time for lunch!" Feuilly saved him, and when all the children happily jumped to their feet, they forgot what they really wanted for the two. They rushed to the door and, together with Feuilly and the educators, went to the next room, where the cooks had already prepared hot soup for them.

"I'm going too," Courfeyrac said as he rose to his feet.

"Look, I'm hungry too," Bahorel admitted, following him.

Bossuet, Jehan, and Combeferre said nothing and simply disappeared behind them. All that remained of the playroom was Grantaire, who still couldn't move from the wall, and Enjolras, who was standing on the stage. They looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time. The silence between them was broken only by the loud click of a hand in a clock hung on the wall.

"Um," Grantaire began, scratching his thick hair. "You sang well."

"Thank you," Enjolras said truthfully, finally coming off the stage. He took a few steps toward Grantaire, but stopped in the middle of the room.

Grantaire looked at him. "It suits you," he said at last.

"Thank you," Enjolras repeated his previous answer. He smiled when he saw that Grantaire didn't know what to say and his cheeks flushed cute. "So, you wouldn't like a kiss."

"Well, not at all," Grantaire admitted, finally breathing. He was glad the blond started it. He walked over to him, grabbed his hands, as Combeferre had just done, and smiled. "You should leave the kiss of true love to your prince, shouldn't you?"

"And I have a prince?" Enjolras asked. Grantaire recognized his playful tone in his voice. They've been dating for half a year. But only a month ago they were able to hold hands. They went about it slowly. It was Enjolras' idea. Grantaire wanted to take him on the table in the patisserie on their first date. But he respected Enjolras' wishes. He knew he was his first real partner, and he didn't want to ruin anything. That's why he hasn't even kissed him yet. He left the first step to the blonde. And he really took his time with it.

"I was hoping it was me," Grantaire said, looking Enjolras in the eye.

"Of course it’s you," Enjolras confirmed, smiling nicely at him. The brunette is not used to this yet. To that candid look and sweet smile. How nice he was to him. It was new and charming. "Thank you for not having to kiss the bad guy." With that, he leaned over to Grantaire and kissed him on the cheek. Just light. He barely rubbed against him. But as he did so, he felt Grantaire's fingers twitch in his palms. He smiled. He pulled away from him, staring into his dark blue eyes, a new, even wider smile unfolding on his face. "I'm going to lunch with them. I got hungry from the singing.” He released his hands and walked to the door.

"Enjolras," his partner stopped him between the doors, and as he turned to him, Grantaire asked, "Do you think you could keep the costume for our Saturday date?"

Instead of another kiss on the cheek, he earned one hard push into his ribs.


	26. Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have the last week here! Wow, it's going really fast. :) Today I'm just giving you a short, nice story to read, which has been in my head for a long time. :)

Enjolras lay on his back, his hands folded behind his head, looking up at the sky. It was already dark blue, the moon was shining on it, but the sun still hadn't set. It rubbed against the waves of the sea. The waves crashed against each other, creating a beautiful symphony for his sensitive ears. The peace and quiet that echoed everywhere was disturbed only by occasional barking and laughter.

Enjolras sat up and looked ahead. Grantaire held a stick in his hand, which he threw into the sea, and a dog he had never seen before and probably belonged to someone in the village where they had stopped, ran for him. Each time he grabbed him in the mouth, he began to swim back happily to Grantaire, fidgeted, wet the brunette, and placed the stick at his feet. He ran a few steps and waited for him to throw it again. He wagged his tail happily. As in the last hour in a row, Grantaire bent to the ground, took the stick in his hand, ran around the dog with the stick several times, and then threw it far into the sea. The dog always jumped into it without thinking.

Enjolras smiled. He had never seen Grantaire so happy. He was still smiling, his cheeks all red and his eyes glowing with flames he had never seen before. He knew him when he laughed, saw him working. But he had never been so happy.

Even Enjolras felt that something had changed in him. A heart that was otherwise beating slowly, and a mind that was overwhelmed with unnecessary details; they finally relaxed. His heart was calm and pounding every time he tasted something good or saw stars that had never shone so brightly in the city. His mind was blank. He didn't think about anything, he didn't think about anything. Today, the one he needed to have every day planned down to the smallest detail, sat on the beach, his hands on his knees, enjoying the light breeze playing with his hair. Although it was almost the end of October, today it was as warm as the day of the spring. He looked at the setting sun and smiled.

He had never felt so great.

And one spontaneous decision was to blame. A month ago, he was sitting at home at a table full of papers and open books. He was writing a new open letter for the president in his notebook. He had a pad of pencil in front of him to write notes in. In the books, he represented everything he needed with a yellow or pink highlighter. His hair was tightly tucked into a small ponytail, from which he had a headache. He wore glasses on his nose because he couldn't see the letters in front of him, which stuck into one large, black spot. He was tired, so he was energizing for the third time with hot coffee.

Suddenly, he stopped writing. He looked at the books, the papers, the laptop, the lamp that lit his desk. He turned and looked at his entire apartment. Papers and pieces of clothing were scattered all over the place. He had a duvet and pillow ready on the couch where he had slept three months ago. Used tea cups, coffee, and cereal bowls were placed on the tables.

He thought about it. When was the last time he threw away trash? When was the last time he cleaned his place? When was the last time he slept in his bed? When was the last time he went to bed before dawn? When was the last time he ate hot, greasy food that would fill him for more than a few minutes?

He looked back at the table. And why was he doing this? Why was he still writing something? Why did he still study? Why was he still trying so hard? For himself? For others?

And did it matter at all?

Enjolras turned off the light, turned off the laptop, and rose from his chair. He took all the used dishes in his hands and washed them. He laid them on the line so they could drip and closed the windows everywhere in the apartment. He turned off the lights, threw out the fuses, left the lid open from the washing machine so that it wouldn't accidentally start. It was old and a little broken. He went to the bedroom, pulled out a small backpack from under the bed, and threw a few pieces of clothing - underwear, pants, T-shirts, a sweatshirt. He tossed his backpack on his back, walked into the hall, put on his favorite white sneakers, and slung a warm, mustard coat over his arm. He left the apartment and locked behind him. The door to the apartment hadn't opened in a month.

Enjolras walked into the parking lot, unlocked the door of his car, tossed his backpack into the back seats, and drove off. He knew where to go. Who to experience this with. Whoever does not force him to speak will not ask anything unnecessarily. Who will follow him, even if he wants to take him to hell itself. Who will listen to him, although the only way to talk will be glances and quiet smiles.

Grantaire. No one else.

When Grantaire opened the door. still sleepy, he immediately smiled at him. "What do you need?" He asked.

"I need to clear my head. Disappear for a moment. Will you join me?” Grantaire barely let him finish. He immediately turned back to the apartment and packed a few things, along with cigarettes and an empty sketchbook and pencil case with sharply cut pencils of all sizes.

Enjolras waited for him by the car, leaning against the hood and looking up at the sky. He saw nothing. Just dark. Just like the one in his heart. Ten minutes later, Grantaire approached him with a smile on his face. Without a word, he sat in the passenger seat and waited for Enjolras to start the engine. "Where are we going?" He asked.

After a moment of silence, Enjolras said quietly, "I don't know."

"That’s my favorite destination," Grantaire laughed, fastening his seat belt.

And so they traveled through southern France for a month. They tasted new food, worked on lavender farms, met villagers where they sometimes slept in hayloft, bathed in lakes and ponds, lay on the hood of a car at night, looked up at the sky, and Grantaire taught Enjolras all the constellations he knew.

And now they were here. By the sea, relaxed, cheerful and happy.

The sun was almost gone, the sky was dark blue and orange, the moon was already shining brightly, and several stars had joined. "Grantaire," Enjolras said as he stood up and cleaned his sand pants with his palms. "We must go."

"Sure," he said as he leaned over the dog, whispered something in his ear, and laughed as the dog licked him with his long, soft tongue across his face. He scratched his fur coat and the dog immediately ran away. Grantaire immediately turned and ran to Enjolras's car. He opened the back seat door and lay down on the blanket that served as an emergency bed. Enjolras, meanwhile, got behind the wheel. He picked up the phone and set the route to his destination. As he placed the cell phone on the deck, Grantaire noticed where they were going and smiled. "We are going home?"

"I think it's time to go back," Enjolras admitted. He finally relaxed. He found the answers to all his intrusive questions. He had nothing more to find. He needed to get back to reality.

Grantaire said nothing more. He smiled, closed his eyes, and decided to sleep the night. As always, Enjolras drove all night and enjoyed the silence in the car.


	27. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart: Come on, let's write a light, fresh story about how Enjolras and Grantaire enjoy a sunny, autumn day and are on a date in the park.
> 
> My brain: NOPE.

The whole room was just smelling of freshly baked cake. The sun's rays warmed the room. The living room was painted blue and white, exactly as he had always wanted. There was a kitchen in the next room, from which there was a soft hum of the melody of the animated series they had watched with Grantaire last night. Enjolras wanted to get up from the couch and go to the kitchen so he could look into those blue eyes, hug his wide waist and kiss him under the ear, exactly at the place he was so sensitive and always started laughing. 

But when he tried to take a step forward, he couldn't. As if he were standing in fresh concrete. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't listen. He wanted to reach out, but even that didn't move away from his body. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out of it. Fear engulfed him. His whole body was drenched in cold sweat, and he opened his mouth again so he could say something when he smelled water in it. Just a few drops. What was it? Tears? No, it wasn't salty. He opened his mouth again, and this time he felt a rush that he couldn't even swallow. His lungs filled with water and protested. He tried to breathe through his nose, but he was stuffy.

Enjolras opened his eyes. He wasn’t at home. He didn't smell the cake. He didn't feel safe. His eyes stared at the dark, stone ceiling from which drops of water dripped. They were dirty and disgusting. "He's finally awake," said a voice above him, and his nose relaxed immediately. He finally started breathing, spat water out of his mouth and tried to breathe hard. It hurt. Lungs full of water couldn’t hold even a piece of oxygen inside. Tears welled in his eyes. "He might start crying," someone else laughed.

Enjolras finally managed to get some water out. He wet his lap. But it had a big effect on his clothes. They were dirty, muddy, wet from liquids worse than water. He blinked. He needed to drive away all his tears. He could see more and more sharply the ropes that bound him around his ankle to the legs of the chair he was sitting on. It was uncomfortable, made of fleshy wood. His hands were twisted behind his back. As his wrist burned with the same pain as his ankles, he was apparently tied with the same rope that held him to his feet. He could feel a wet towel around his neck that was on his mouth a few minutes ago, filling his gut with water. It cooled him on hot skin, which was the only relief he felt. His back and ribs ached. Something unpleasant flowed from the cross down. He hoped it was just blood. "Are you with us?" Enjolras shuddered. Has he always been so cold, even though his whole body was on fire? He felt as always when he had the flu in the fall. He lay in bed, shaking, and yet he was covered with two blankets and drank tea. Nothing could warm him. As a child, only the warm arms of his mother, which after years in Paris was replaced by the strong arms of his lover.

Enjolras winced. Finally he raised his head and looked ahead. Ten men stood in front of him, all taller and older. Some had tattoos on their bodies, others could boast scars and bruises that appeared on every exposed piece of their skin. The eleventh man sat in a chair similar to the one Enjolras was tied to. He was wearing an expensive suit, a carefully tied tie, a gold watch glittering on his right hand, and a wine glass in his left. His hair was carefully gelled so that not a strand would fall on his forehead. His eyes glowed light brown until they were almost golden. He had a small freckle over his lip. If it were any other situation, Enjolras would describe him as  _ charming _ .

But now it was definitely not a word to describe him. He frowned. "But what about the look, I was hoping you'd change your mind, and we'd finally be friends," the man laughed. He had a deep voice, a little hoarse. It didn't suit his subtle appearance. He finished his wine and handed an empty glass to one of the men who had gone with him. Only for a moment did he see Enjolras' unlit lighting from the corridor. Weren't they the sun's rays?

Enjolras fidgeted. When was the last time he saw the light? Sun? When was the last time he felt warm on his body? When was the last time he looked at the sky? It seemed so long. He has lost track of time. Everything shrank into a few nightmares that showed him the perfect world he wanted to live in. Into a couple of nightmares, where everyone had a great time, his friends talked to him about their successes and laughed at silly jokes. At nightmares, where he made love, kissed and looked at home with the only person who understood him without words.

But he was here. The room, which had no lights, smelled of mold and was too damp and cold.

The beautiful man rose from his chair, his companions out of his way. He walked over to Enjolras, knelt in front of him, and looked him in the face. They were almost as tall. Under normal circumstances, a blond boy would be able to look only at the line of his chest. "Then we'll try again today, okay? Where is my father?”

Oh. Enjolras already remembered. All those days when someone sprinkled him with water, made a punching bag out of it, or made him eat moldy food; messed up all his memories. Whenever he fell asleep exhausted and someone woke him - by pouring water in his mouth, kicking his crotch or pouring sewage water on his head - he didn't remember where he was, why he was there and how he got there. But every time this man knelt, sat, or approached him, no matter how close - Oh, his name was Marcian. A weird name for the French. - Everything came back at once.

_ Les Ámis _ were no longer safe. Their plans and demonstrations began to bother some political parties. It started innocently. A couple of threatening emails that the recipient couldn't find. Hygiene checks at the Musain café, which then had to close for a month. The canceled demonstrations, which became illegal and every time they arrived at the venue, where they met the police, who urged them to leave. They never made unnecessary trouble. But everyone knew that if they wanted to continue their efforts, it would escalate.

The men who followed the  _ Les Ámis _ were beginning to give up. Some were worried about themselves, some about their families. Some just found that everything they had been doing until then was out of boredom. They never really wanted any real change. Even the young Marius was so surprised by the whole situation that he stopped going to meetings. Courfeyrac didn’t blame him and thanked him for the months he had given them. The others still met him, but their conversations never turned to politics again.

There were eight left. They stood proudly and fought on. Enjolras was the most heard of all. He kept trying to promote new values that would elevate everyone. People listened to him, bowed to him, trusted him, but said nothing publicly. They were afraid that some other power might turn against them. Enjolras didn't blame them, but every time he saw no one standing up, he clenched his fists and blood boiled all over his body. He wanted to help everyone, but he had to fight for it alone with his friends.

After a few months, a new prime minister, Jean Petit, came to power in parliament. A man who in the past sympathized with political ideas that no longer fit into the 21st century. But he still found his fans. He was rich, successful, able to speak well, dressed well. People believed in his empty promises and great gestures. In reality, however, they meant nothing. He favored only himself, his family and friends. As any politician who came to power has done so far.

But Jean was different. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He got to the Ministry of the Interior and that's where it all started. New laws of security, rights and freedoms. He began to restrict people, but he was always able to sum it all up with a sentence - _ I do it for your own good and for the good of our whole country _ . The more his rules escalated, the more people stopped trusting him. Those who tried to speak aloud mysteriously always turned and defended him after a few months. Could the threatening letters be to blame? Or police visits? Or devaluation in the social environment?

Maybe everything. Jean understood that his power must be strengthened by something stronger than just a few words on paper. And so he founded a new unit of the Police, the one that stood above the very protection of the people, property and the president himself. They had more power, they could intervene in a worse way. They were everywhere. And they all saw how strange men they were. With a dubious past, with dubious jobs, with dubious friends. And among them Jean, whom they adored.

Their strength, power, and fear, which they were able to evoke in people, made them impregnable. Jean knew that if he continued, one of his dreams would come true. He wanted to be president, rule the whole country and establish a new order. And it was clear to everyone that it wasn’t about turning France into a wonderful utopia that Enjolras had dreamed of, though he kept that secret; but to get her a few steps back again, to a time when one man's hand ruled over absolutely everyone.

And Enjolras didn’t want to allow that. With his seven friends, he tried to fool over Jean and his prohibitions. They weren’t afraid of his anonymous statements or the police. They fought by all available means, which didn’t involve any violence. They made sure that everything they did was still in violation of the law. They couldn't make a mistake. Everything had to be planned down to the smallest detail.

But Jean and his servant suite weren’t afraid of anything. Their joint struggles lasted for a year, during which someone burned down Grantaire's studio; Jehan's books were printed only with blank pages and he was publicly declared the worst young author of today; fired Feuilly and Bossuet from works; Combeferre was expelled from school, and during the entrance exams for the next year, he was informed that his name had appeared on the black list and he would never be able to re-apply for medical practice, anywhere in the country; Bahorel’s car was set on fire by someone; mysteriously all the cats in the street, which Courfeyrac fed and cared for, because there was no room for them in the shelter, died by poison food; someone exchanged Joly's order of numbing injections for the pain he had for his dental patients for morphine, which he almost gave to a five-year-old girl who would be killed on the spot by the dose.

Something was happening to everyone and the attacks were escalating. Only Enjolras was avoided by everyone. As if Jean knew that the worst thing that could happen to him was the grief and loss of his friends. He knew that one mistake would be enough for him, and Jean could catch them all, arrest them, throw them out of Paris, from France, get rid of them in a better way for him. He needed the eight boys who slandered him, put dirt on him, were able to find even the smallest detail about his next steps; to disappear. But he still hadn't found the loophole to trap them.

Until Marcian appeared on the scene. His very handsome and educated son of almost thirty, who looked like he was twenty. Beautiful figure, beautiful face, good manners. But a heart as rotten as father's. His genes were stronger than his mother's beautiful soul, who had committed suicide years ago. No one connected Marcian with Jean, everyone looked different. When he first appeared alongside his father at a press conference, declaring him his deputy, and the man becoming the youngest MP in French modern history, everyone noticed him. Even Grantaire, who was watching television with Enjolras, sat between his legs, snuggling up to his tall figure. Grantaire fought by his side, but never paid more attention to Jean and his companion. However, as soon as Marcian began to speak, the atmosphere in the room thickened. "What's going on?" Enjolras asked cautiously, feeling Grantaire stiffen in his arms and begin to shake slightly.

"I know him," Grantaire said, his pupils dilated. Years ago, before Grantaire even met  _ Les Ámis _ , he went to a popular gay bar. It was the only place where there were no perverted elderly men or businessmen who wanted to have a little fun and return to their obedient wives and spoiled children in the evening. A safe place for those who were looking for good friends and suitable partners. And among them was Marcian. Everyone knew him. But everyone was afraid of him too. He was known to be able to entice every boy to sweet words, but after a few months, instead of a confident, young boy, a mentally devastated wreck returned to the bar, afraid of any touch. Marcian was cruel behind closed doors, as was his father. Maybe he learned it from him as a child, when his father had to watch how he beat his mother, or how his father made love to his mistresses. His father hated everything that wasn’t normal for him. And that included his son's orientation. He, frustrated in marriage with a woman he didn't love, vented his anger on innocent boys. He mentally tortured them, destroyed them, and in time beat them. When he felt that they were on their border, he simply left them without a word. Marcian soon got blacklisted at the bar, but found another. And then another. And then another. Although stories of his relationships and violent nature soon spread, no one said anything publicly. Everyone was afraid of him. He was even more powerful than his father.

But Enjolras knew that Marican was Jean's biggest flaw. Thanks to him, he was able to attack his person directly. He could afford more things, he could be more personal, he could go where it hurt the most. Jean began to lose ground under his feets. Even people noticed how strange he was behaving, and his always learned role was slowly losing its beauty.

Maybe it caused Jean's unit to appear at Enjolras's door once and ask him to go with them. Enjolras didn’t resist them. He had no reason. If he happened to disappear, someone would soon start looking for him. The apartment complex was guarded and the owner got along very well with people from the opposition. Jean couldn’t risk his disappearance. When he got into the black limousine waiting for him at the door, he wasn't surprised when Jean was already sitting in it. They drive around a few blocks in a circle, talking all the time, Jean was drinking champagne, and Enjolras was trying to calm his pounding heart. They spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. They paid no attention to the details. They made it clear what they were up to. Jean asked Enjolras to stop their group, and he promised to change. Enjolras didn't believe him, just as Jean knew that his words had little effect on the blond.

Nevertheless, relations between them calmed down for a while. Enjolras, otherwise always on the lookout, eased his alertness and forgot the old saying -  _ Silence before the storm _ . However, the storm was stronger than he expected. When the French president mysteriously died, it was clear to Enjolras that Jean was to blame. He died the same strange death as his wife. Farewell letter, drinking alcohol with crushed drugs and hanging himself. However, no drugs were found in his blood, he had bruises on his body, indicating that he had been tortured, beaten, and had several broken ribs for several hours before his death. He didn’t have the bruise on his neck that was normally done to hanged people. He was hung from the eye of the rope long after his death, so his neck was only red thanks to the rope that dug into his neck. Jean had a free path to becoming president.

But none of the  _ Les Ámis  _ could allow that. They began issuing free papers, in which Jean was convicted of the death of their president, of the unfair business he had made without the knowledge of the people and politicians, of his obsession with power. They also wrote about his son, who tortured young men in an attempt to cover up his own dissatisfaction.

The war between them could begin. It only lasted half a year. Because even though Enjolras was calm and always thought ahead, he had only one weakness. His lover, his friend and the only person he didn't want to lose - Grantaire. Grantaire, an otherwise neglected member of the  _ Les Ámis _ , was found by Marcian. He signed up for the same painting courses, met him in the same shops, always ate at the next table as he did. He even attended the same study parties, although he didn’t study at the school Grantaire attended. Everything was strange, and Enjolras decided he would always be by Grantaire's side.

But their characters caught up with what they always did. They argued. They spoke unpleasant words that usually ended in wild making love. They shouted at each other things they didn't mean, and then went to reconcile with their favorite sweets in hand. One quarrel, but it caused something that destroyed Enjolras. Grantaire, who hadn't touched alcohol since they'd been dating, came home drunk. He wasn’t interested in Grantaire's excuses for not understanding how it was possible that he got drunk when he wasn't buying any alcohol. He tried to beg, apologized, and cried. But Enjolras didn’t listen. Maybe it was the stress he'd felt in years, maybe just his own nervousness about what Jean would do again. But that night, Enjolras threw Grantaire out of his apartment. And he never stopped blaming himself.

Enjolras called Grantaire after an hour, but Grantaire didn't pick up. He called him every half hour, wrote him countless text messages. In the morning, when it was still quite cold, but the sun was slowly beginning to rise, he nervously walked around the apartment, holding a phone in his hand, writing and calling with all his friends. And then it happened. His cell phone vibrated. He received a new email. An email from an unknown address that he would normally ignore if he didn't see the file someone was sending him. The file with Grantaire's name and face. Enjolras's fingers trembled, his heart pounding, he imagined anything -

But not  _ this _ . Grantaire, still drunk, was in his favorite bar. Marcian hung around his shoulders. They laughed together, drank. The camera was a little shaken. Marcian held the phone in his hand, trying to film everything that was going on in the bar. It was only after a while that Enjolras realized that there was no music in it, no lights flickering, there was too much silence. Only a few men sat at the tables. The men from Jean's security and police force, whom he recognized through public photographs he had studied so carefully. A few drinks later, Marcian poured something into Grantaire’s drink. He forced him to drink, but Grantaire refused. And that's what happened. Grantaire's men grabbed his hands, pulled him into the middle of the floor, and shone a bright, white light on him that blinded him. They opened his mouth, stuffed his nose, and Grantaire, completely helpless, drank a glass. Within a few minutes, he was in their power. And Marcian and his men could do whatever they wanted. And they decided—

Enjolras threw a cell phone on the ground. It fell to pieces. Enjolras shivered, blood boiling in his body, he could still hear their laughter and Grantaire's sobs with silent pleas in his ears. He walked into the hall, got dressed, and drove to the bar where Grantaire was supposed to be. The bar was unlocked, nobody was there. The owner lay dead at the bar with a huge wound at his chest. His blood was everywhere. It was already starting to stink. But only one thing interested Enjolras - Grantaire. He was still lying in the middle of the floor, the light long out. He knelt beside him, stroked his cheek, and helped him sit up. At that moment, Grantaire cried. His soft sobs, his fingers clenching into his coat, his body shaking; Enjolras thinked about only one thing - Marcian became his main enemy, and he needed to hurt him even more than he did now.

Enjolras, consumed by anger and aggression, decided to take Marcian the only thing he had ever really loved. His violent, rude, deceived father. He shared his plan with his friends, but neither agreed. "Enjolras, what happened was disgusting and unforgivable. But kill someone? Don't be silly. "

But Enjolras meant it. He didn't care that no one agreed with him. He didn't care that Combeferre asked him every day if he had forgotten the  _ stupid idea _ . He didn't care that Grantaire, now a little quieter and calmer, begged him not to. "Then you won't save anyone anymore," Grantaire told him as he stroked his hair after one night together and they looked out the window at the stars. "Revenge will never solve anything."

But it solved it for Enjolras. The annoying feeling on his chest finally subsided. When he saw Jean being afraid. When he saw Jean pee in fear. When he saw Jean cry. When he saw Jean promise and beg for his own life. When he saw how he was able to confess to everything in the video, just to save his life. When he saw him shake when he saw the weapon in Enjolras's hands. When he saw him vomit as he exchanged his pistol for a long, kitchen knife. When he saw his golden eyes, life vanished from his body thanks to Enjolras’ hands.

Enjolras returned in the morning. The news was full that Jean Petit had disappeared and no one could find him. Grantaire sat on the sofa, drinking his favorite herbal tea. When he saw Enjolras between the living room door, he was startled. "What did you do?" He asked quietly, as if afraid that Enjolras would attack him as well. He just looked at himself. He changed his clothes. Burned them. But he couldn’t wash the blood from his fingers for a week. Enjolras didn’t answer, his head bowed to his chest, his gaze focused on the toes of his own shoes. Grantaire grabbed his chin then and forced him to look at him. His eyes were full of tears. They made love that night tenderly, slowly, as if it were the last time.

Maybe they already knew it then. Marcian was more influential. He took his father's place and declared his father dead. They never found his body. But Marcian was sure he knew who the killer was. He didn’t declare it publicly, he held it in himself like a driving engine that longed for one thing - to get rid of Alexander Aurélius Enjolras. It didn't take him long. Two days later, Enjolras also disappeared.

Enjolras had no idea where he was. How long has he been here. If anyone was looking for him. Have they been pronounced dead long ago? Did they do anything to his friends? Where was Grantaire? He knew nothing. He had no idea if they had ever told him that before. His mind stopped working.

One well-aimed slap across his face and ear brought him back to reality. His ear began to whistle in his ear. It hurted. But he didn't growl in pain anymore. In the last - hours, days, weeks, months? - his pain threshold shifted a few degrees. There was nothing that slap can do. He whimpered in pain only when his fists pounded his ribs, which didn’t heal well and were still broken. "So you're not going to tell me anything again?" Enjolras gave him one blank look. Marcian knew that. He knew his father was dead. But one thing he cared about was burying him. Give his soul peace. He believed in heaven and hell, he believed in God. He needed his father's soul to leave. And Enjolras didn't want to give it to him. "Okay. So today we will do it differently. "

Marcian got up, walked to the door, and knocked on it several times. The door opened and the man who had just left with his glass was back. But this time he was holding something else in his hands. Enjolras' pupils dilated. Grantaire stood before him in his naked beauty. He had a black cloth over his eyes that he couldn't see. His hands were tied behind his back. The man led him by the shoulder, which was all red, as if he had come across something rough several times. His whole body was littered with wounds. They were neither deep nor bloody. They looked more like—

Enjolras gritted his teeth. "What did you do to him?" He didn't recognize his voice. It sounded deep, hoarse. All the time he'd been here, he'd just moaned in pain or screamed as they hit a place that had been swollen and purple.

"E-Enjolras?" The brunette jerked. When he recognized his boyfriend's voice, he wanted to run to him. He did, but only a step forward before another man kicked his leg. He fell to his knees and whimpered. There was an unpleasant sound as his ossified knees fell to the slippery, cold ground. A narrow, red trickle of water indicated that he had slit his right knee. "Enjolras," he said again, a little more urgently.

That was enough for Enjolras. From his tone of voice, he understood what he wanted to say. There was joy in his tone that he was alive. Hope he can finally hear him. But also fear of what will happen. Despair because he didn't know how his lover was doing. He recognized in his body how much he wanted to touch him to find all the broken bones and bruises on his body.

"How cute," Marcian laughed, walking over to Grantaire. He poked him in the head with his knee. Grantaire winced and turned his head toward Marcian. "The mysterious man doesn’t want to tell us anything. Like you.” He knelt, grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders, and pulled him to his chest, “Perhaps we should show your dear friend what we've been doing together in recent weeks.”

Grantaire fidgeted. Just remembering Marcian's fingers on his body, he was drenched in cold sweat and his stomach heaved. Grantaire was certainly not weak. He could defend himself. He inflicted several wounds on his men before they were able to put a few sedatives in his mouth and inject a white substance into his vein that he had no idea what it was. But its effect was quick. His body became a piece of rag with which anyone could do whatever he wanted. And everyone took advantage of it. But his mind was working fine. He was aware of everything, he saw everything, he felt everything. There was nothing he could do about it. During everything that happened to his body, Marcian asked him the same questions. He asked him about the _Les Ámis,_ he asked all the members - he had no idea how they found out their names and occupations - he asked mainly about Enjolras and kept repeating one and the same question over and over: "Where is my father?" They were all joking that he was like Enjolras' dog, who was just as faithful and would follow him to death - he lied. He said he didn’t belong to the group. He said he had never heard the boys' names, let alone known them. He said that Enjolras was his partner, but never told him about his work. He said he had no idea where his father was. And Marcian always just smiled, got up from his chair, and left, leaving Grantaire at their mercy. But every day they gave him enough food and drink to keep him alive. Grantaire knew they needed him for something. He projected all sorts of scenarios in his head. This was one of them, too. He knew he was Enjolras' weakness. He would do anything for him. The blond, who was as cold as ice at first, would lay down his own life for him today to protect him.

"Enjolras," he whispered as Marcian kissed him and began to touch his entire body with his hands. This time, Grantaire had only sedatives. He couldn't get excited, his whole body was supple. But he could move a little. But pain in his whole body, a severed knee, and tied hands prevented him from doing everything.

Enjolras turned his head. But he didn’t escape the sounds that began to resound throughout the cell. His legs and arms were shaking. He wanted to run, far from it all. Far from itself. He hated himself for what he had done to the only person who had ever loved him infinitely. Which didn't ask for anything. Who didn't want anything from him. "Stop it," he whispered through clenched teeth.

Marcian pulled away from Grantaire, wiped his wet lips, and laughed throatily. "You mind if someone wants to have fun with your whore?" He walked over to Enjolras, grabbed his hair, and jerked his hand hard. Enjolras's spine creaked. But there wasn’t a hint of pain in his eyes. "Tell me where my father is and we'll end all this."

"By killing us both? Never," he said firmly. Marcian let go of his hair and stood behind him. He grabbed his chin with his right hand and his neck with his left. He nodded at one of the men, who walked over to Grantaire and began to touch him. Enjolras' heart pounded. He tried to jerk his head, look away again, but he couldn't. Marcian held him tight. He closed his eyes.

"You're a coward," Marcian laughed. "At least your boy tries, he sweeps himself like a piece of rag, just so you can live. And how do you repay him? You don't even look at his performance. I would never want someone like you."

"As if someone could ever want you." The pressure on his neck and chin intensified. Marcian still wanted to be sure he was the best. That was his weakness again. "You’re as weak as your father."

"Shut up!" He shouted and punched him in the face. Marcian was hot-tempered. All he had to do was play a little on his nerves and he exploded. It was too easy.

"Aw!" They both looked at the man, who began to wipe his lip. His fingers were covered in blood. "That bitch bit me!" Grantaire was shaking. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was scared. Not about himself, but about Enjolras. Enjolras's eyes tormented him. He wanted to help him. He wanted to give him freedom. He deserved it. After everything he had experienced in his life, he was still a pure soul. Marcian walked over to him and kicked him in the stomach. Grantaire crouched and groaned. A few of his tears fell to the ground.

"Let him go," Enjolras asked in the softest voice he could say at the moment.

"No," Marcian said firmly. He took a thick, black whip from one of the men. Enjolras's pupils dilated. He knew he wasn't meant to hurt him. It was for Grantaire. He knew that despite his pain, he would hurt him much more.

"Leave him—" First blow. Enjolras couldn't even breathe when he hitted him again. Grantaire tried to stay on his knees, but he couldn't. With each blow, he got closer and closer to the ground. As he sat on his ass, one of the men pulled him back to his knees by the hair. "Leave him alone!" Grantaire shouted in pain. At first loud. After a few moments between the screams, he growled in confusion. Nobody understood him. Not Enjolras this time either. "Leave him alone!" Another blow, another, another. Screams, giggles, tears. "Leave him alone!" Grantaire couldn't stand it anymore. His whole body relaxed. The man released him and landed on the ground with his chest. Grantaire didn't even whimper at the pain of the impact as Marcian slashed twice over his back. He finally managed to tear his skin. Small streams of blood began to flow from the cross to his neck. Marcian only aimed at open wounds to open them as much as possible. "Leave him alone, you motherfucker!"

"Wow, you suddenly know how to talk." Everyone laughed.

"Leave him alone. Leave him!"

"No." Another blow. Grantaire's sob. Another stream of blood. "As long as he breathes, I'll beat him."

"Leave him!" Enjolras's stomach heaved. He could feel the stomach juices in his throat. "Leave him!" What burned in his eyes was certainly not malice, but tears that were about to come out of his eyes at any moment. "Leave him!" But Marcian didn’t listen, despite his pleas. The more Enjlolras roared, the faster the blows. "Leave him! Leave him! Leave him!” Enjolras could barely breathe. His wrists and ankles were all bloodied as he tried to get out of the tight grip of the ropes. His throat was scratching. He was beginning to see red, sometimes a little dull. His whole body was shaking. He needed to go. He needed to save Grantaire. He needed to hurt Marcian. "You will never be like your dad, because your body can no longer rot!" Marcian didn’t hit Grantair this time. He focused his eyes on Enjolras. He was breathing fast, a vein in his throat. "You'll never be like your dad," he said again. "Because your body is rotten to the bone. But he can still feed a few worms for a few days now.”

"What?" Marcian asked. There was a clear warning in his voice.

"Enjolras," Grantaire whispered almost inaudibly. The blond understood him again. He begged him not to say anything. To let it be. He let him know that he could do something else, he would bleed for him, he would faint for him, he would be killed for him. And if it was a teen drama, Enjolras might call it romantic. But now it was losing all meaning.

"What? Do you think that if I killed your father, I would throw him somewhere in the river where the fishermen would find him and then you could give him a dignified funeral? Do you think that I would burn him and bury his remains so that it could be described as a dignified burial? Do you think I'd let him leave at all so that it can be described as a dignified funeral?” Marcian's face was hard. Eyesinaccessible. Enjolras chuckled. There was no going back. "Never. I would never allow such a pig to leave this world with calm. To be forgiven for what he had ever done. In order to be calm and his son could live on without a single sense of helplessness. No. Do you know what I did to him?”

Marcian put the whip on the ground. He helped Grantaire sit up. He removed the tape from his eyes. Grantaire whimpered. He had only seen darkness for several hours. Even though there was only a faint light in the room, it still felt sharp. But the eyes soon got used to it. He blinked all the tears so he could see Enjolras, who was sitting a few steps away, handcuffed to a chair. When the brunette saw him, he cried. Lucky to see him. Despair when he saw his condition. "Enjolras." He begged. He didn't want this to be the end of them. They deserved a different life.

"I'm sorry, Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, and for the first time since Marcian and his men had kidnapped him, he smiled. He wanted it to be the last thing Grantaire would remember. He looked at Marcian again, took a breath, determined to tell him everything. "It wasn't hard to dismember him."

Marcian's pupils dilated. He stood up again and swallowed dry. "You didn't do that." Their faith didn’t recognize bodies that didn’t return completely. He needed to have a _ full father _ . As he was born, he had to leave. And Enjolras—

"Of course I did. He didn't deserve anything else. It was hard, but I was very happy to do it. Loading it into the car was also easy. Take him from Paris? Also easy. But it was hard to get to all the tops of the landfill where I put it. I bribed the manager not to ask what I put in the dump. Do you think there is only one body lying there? No. I don’t think so."

"Y-you didn't d-do  _ that _ ." Marcian knew what place Enjolras was talking about. His father showed it to him when he was a small child. There they took all those who were "unnecessary". Huge, illegal dump, far outside the city. A strange place where only strange people worked and it worked on very special rules. His father also had respect for the place. He had no idea where Enjolras had learned about him. It was a place where all the mobsters worked.

"Go there. Find your father. Put him back together. So if you find all the pieces before they decompose and the worms eat it."

"Shut up!" Marcian shouted, taking one of his men by the shoulder and shaking it. "Give me your weapon! Give me your weapon!”

"No!" Grantaire shouted, startled, realizing what Marcian wanted to do.

"Do it. Shoot me. I don't care."

"Enjolras!" Grantaire looked at his lover. He looked like a reborn. His eyes were pleasantly warm, his lips beautifully pink. He was smiling. You enjoyed it. He experienced it as his last seconds in this world. "Don't say anything else!"

"All I care about is that someone throws trash and carcasses at your father. It is flooded with sewage."

Marcian picked up the weapon, his hands shaking. He checked the magazine. Fully charged.

"Don't say anything more, Enjolras, please!"

Marcian forced Grantaire to sit down again. He tugged at his hair. "Hold him tight. I want him to watch his dear lover to fucking die. "

"Do you know what else they're doing there? I'm sure they urinated on him. "

"Enjolras!"

Marcian walked over to Enjolras and kicked him hard in the stomach. Enjolras coughed up a few drops of blood, between them what looked like pieces of his own stomach. He laughed. Marcian grabbed his hair, tilted his head. Under his chin he felt the cold touch of the barrel. "Your last words?"

Enjolras opened his mouth, but only blood flow came out. Marcian wouldn't let him say anything else. He pulled the trigger before Enjolras could reassure Grantaire that he loved him. It was strange that even before the bullet went through his brain, he heard Grantaire's worried scream. He could almost feel his tears on his body. He felt a strange heat loosen all over his body. Only then did he sink into darkness.

Enjolras wanted to see the light once more. But not every wish of the dying man will come true.


	28. Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was clear to me from the beginning that one day I had to write a story about how Enjolras stood for Grantaire as his model for his final work at school. And it's finally here!

Grantaire stood behind the canvas stand and looked ahead. A fuchsia cloth was draped over the chair. Next to the chair stood a gold stand with a gold cup and several pieces of green grapes. Two lamps shone in place, each from a different angle. The background was gray and dull. Grantaire was still smiling. He was just finishing his big project today. He looked at his watch. It was six in the evening. At any moment, Jehan was to enter his studio and offer to become his model. He poured himself wine and waited.

At half an hour later someone knocked on the door. Grantaire smiled, finished his wine, and walked to the door. "You’re finally here," he laughed as he opened the door. "I thought you already for— Enjolras?" He asked in surprise when, instead of a red-haired, freckled young man, a tall blond with a cold look and the bluest eyes he had ever seen stood in front of him. "What are you doing here?" He blinked and half-opened his mouth. He was more surprised that the blonde knew where his studio was. He didn't know he would ever mention it to him.

"Jehan called me," he said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket so he could show Grantaire the last call on the phone. It lasted almost twenty minutes. "He said he was supposed to help you with a school project today, but his family called to say that they needed help with something and it was urgent. He asked me if I could take it for him. So here I am. That is, if you don't mind. I asked Jehan about it too, but he said you wouldn't mind. "

"Certainly not," Grantaire admitted. "But did he tell you what it was about?"

"He mentioned it vaguely."

"Vaguely," Grantaire sighed. "Then come in." He dodged him so his friend could come inside. "It's cold outside, isn't it?" He asked, noticing Enjolras's pink cheeks and ear tips. He hung Enjolras's coat on a hanger and they entered the main room of the studio together. "I have nothing warm here. I can only offer wine. That could warm you up a little."

"Wine will do, thank you," he said truthfully, and the brunette went for the clean glass he had hidden with the wine in a small cupboard next to the bunk.

Meanwhile, Enjolras looked around the studio. He saw a few before, but never stayed in them for long. These were mostly just business meetings within their  _ Les Ámis  _ group. He didn't understand the artists as much, maybe he never understood art very much and it didn't give him as much satisfaction as other activities. But he always admired how they were able to lock themselves in a small room, which they declared their refuge, where they were able to create their best works. It seemed to him as if their whole soul was projected into their studio. Chaos, order, the smell of perfumes or just colors. As they were - natural.

Grantaire was no exception. His studio had one window that was closed, overcast, and a black cloth was glued over it. The room was painted beige, there was only space for painting supplies and a small closet in which Grantaire hid food and drink. Opposite the bunk stood a still life ready for drawing. Otherwise, there was a sofa in the room on which Grantaire's clothes were thrown, two blankets, and a pillow. Every time the final exams approached, the brunette slept here.

"Here." Grantaire interrupted Enjolras as he examined the room as he stood beside him and handed him a glass. Enjolras accepted it quietly and drank. Even though he didn't like alcohol at all, he liked wine. Mainly red, rich and sweet. Exactly the ones Grantaire had just poured him. "When's the next bus for your stop? I hope you don't come here on foot. It's quite a long way from your apartment."

"What, please?" The blond asked, confused.

"Well, I guess when you warm up a little, you'll go home?"

"Why should I?"

Grantaire blinked and frowned. "Because, you don't want to do that?"

"Don't you like me as a model?" Enjolras asked sincerely, sipping his glass. "If so, tell me. I'm not offended. I understand that as an artist you had a clear idea of what your painting would look like. And if you asked Jehan, you wanted him as a representation of your vision. Jehan and I are quite different, both in appearance and character. I know how easily you can transfer feelings and emotions to the canvas, so I will understand if my sometimes too cold nature doesn’t fit into your theme."

"Well, wait, I don't think so," Grantaire began immediately, sitting down in a chair beside the bunk. "You're a great model. Damn, do you have mirrors at home? You were born to be a model! Every artist could wish for you. I have drawn Jehan several times, we can work together. It's easiest with him. I wanted to use it on another theme, but everyone was afraid of the last one. Today's one. And you know what Jehan is like.”

"Fearless?"

"Shameless," Grantaire corrected him with a laugh. "He’s not afraid of anything. He takes nudity as an act of art. The way I take it too. There is nothing sexual about it. So it was easy for him to agree to do this.” Enjolras just nodded. "So I understand if you don't want to do it. You can leave at any time."

"How can you know I don't want to?" Enjolras asked with sincere interest, and drank again.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "And you want to?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"All right, all right, all right, Apollo," Grantaire said, straightening up in his chair and waving his arms in front of him, as if driving away invisible bees. "We understand what this is about, don't we?" Enjolras nodded. "Did you understand what Jehan was saying?"

"I'm not stupid, Grantaire."

"I am not saying that. But do you  _ understand—  _ ” Enjolras didn't like the tone. It was as if the brunette was making fun of him, "—that I planned to paint a naked model today."

"Yes."

" _ Naked _ model."

"I'm not deaf, I heard you for the first time."

Grantaire took a deep breath. He was about to start protesting, telling Enjolras he didn't have to do it for him when his voice got stuck in his throat. After all, it was Enjolras - his friend, leader, and idol. He loved every moment he stabbed him with his beautiful, cold eyes and called him by name. He never really listened to him, but the attention he gave him made him happy. And now he could have it to himself for a few hours. In all its  _ naked  _ beauty.

Only under that idea did he fade. In the years he went boxing, painting in college, and immersed himself in the world of sexual pleasure, he saw countless naked bodies. Girls, boys, women, men, sometimes even people who were somewhere in between or didn’t play at some borders. He loved the bodies as aspects of art as well as desires. But Enjolras did not fit into anything he had seen. He was exceptional. Different. He attracted him and admired each other as a long-exhibited work in a gold frame.

"When do we start?" Enjolras handed Grantaire an empty glass.

"Whenever you want."

"So now?"

"Yes."

"Should I undress?"

Grantaire's breath caught in his throat. He cleared his throat and replied in a strongest voice, "S-sure."

Enjolras just nodded. Without another word, he took off his white sweater, under which he wore a tight, black T-shirt. It didn't give much room to the imagination anymore, as it perfectly sketched his muscles. He unbuckled his trouser belt, button and zipper. Grantaire could already see his red boxers from behind the open hatch. They were  _ too  _ tight, too. Grantaire looked away as he took off his black pants and socks and slowly moved his fingers to the hem of his T-shirt so he could take it off. He stared at the canvas and took several deep breaths. He focused on breathing, on how his heart was pounding, on how suddenly his whole forehead was dewy. He needed to calm down. Ideally so that Enjolras wouldn’t notice.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Sit in that chair," he ordered without looking at him. "Throw the cloth over your lap."

"Like this?"

Grantaire was forced to finally look ahead. Obeying his wishes, Enjolras sat down in a chair and put a cloth in his lap that sufficiently covered his  _ jewel _ . He leaned his back against a chair, one arm slung over the backrest, the other carelessly resting in his lap. His legs were slightly spread. Grantaire noticed something shiny on his chest. "Fuck," he whispered, swallowing loudly.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. He looked in the same direction as Grantaire. He smiled. "Would you mind if I kept it?"

"N-no, like, um, no." Grantaire had to clear his throat again. The air in the room seemed heavy. And has it always been so hot here? "I didn’t know that…"

"That I have a piercing? You never asked."

"Because I wouldn't even think to ask."

Enjolras smiled. "I had it done at sixteen. I only put it down once when my appendix burst at the age of twenty and I had to be in the hospital due to complications. The hole grows too fast for me, so I had to go for another puncture right after that. The lady in the salon told me to take it out only in the most emergency, if I didn't want the puncture to grow back on me. She said I had very resistant nipples. I have no idea what she meant."

"I don't either," Grantaire said in a voice that was too loud, and took a breath. He definitely didn't want to think about Enjolras' nipples. On those that were colored the same color as his lips. Was it possible for an adult male to have them this pink, full, and sweet-looking? To top it all off, the right one was adorned with a light, silver piece of jewelry that shone beautifully with each breath.

Grantaire shook his head. He needed to concentrate.

"Can we?"

"Sure. Just tell me what to do. "

"All you have to do is sit still."

"Okay."

And so Enjolras really sat motionless, still in the same position, sometimes looking directly at Grantaire, sometimes searching the room with his eyes. The only thing that spread through the studio was how Grantaire painted. A faint odor of color began to flicker in both of their noses, but neither of them was bothered by it. Enjolras liked silence, he didn't like shallow conversations. But Grantaire was tired. He was glad to have Jehan here. He spoke, told him poems, sang. Although he was restless and still writhing, Grantaire shouted at him like the father to his young son. But he felt relaxed with him.

Not with Enjolras. It was weird. He had a model in front of him that any artist could wish for, but he couldn't concentrate properly. He thought too much of each of his brushstrokes, and what he created on the canvas was too precise. It wasn't like his other works. Sometimes he made mistakes. Some of its outlines didn't make sense. It was his little signature. Every time he looked in front of him, he didn't paint anything. He didn't want to make a single mistake. Enjolras didn't deserve it.

"Jehan said you had an interesting final thesis topic," the blond broke the silence between them, feeling that a coccyx from an uncomfortable chair was already starting to hurt him.

"He finds everything interesting."

"You're right," Enjolras admitted. "But doing the final work on love also seems interesting to me."

"Thanks." Grantaire smiled at the blond, who returned the smile. The moment immediately etched in his memory. He needed to remember it later. So that he can carefully paint it on the picture.

"What should I portray?"

Grantaire moved his wrist several times before answering, "Something out of love."

"Love itself?"

"One of its forms."

"Hm. Like joy? ”

"No," Grantaire laughed. "I don’t believe in joy in love. I'm a little more animalistic. "

"Desire?"

"You're close."

"I don't want to play, I just want an answer."

"But I enjoy the way you try."

Enjolras looked at him with his typical measured gaze and sighed. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Grantaire waited a moment, but when he saw that Enjolras really did not intend to continue guessing, he replied, "Euphoria."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and grunted. "Like… in a relationship?"

"Also."

"In love?"

"Also."

"In sex?" Grantaire had to lick his lips when he heard how simply Enjolras spoke the word  _ sex _ . With his virgin face. With his beautiful voice. With his amazing body. It should be illegal.

"…Also. Just total euphoria. "

"And don't you find me… too boring?"

"Why do you think?"

"I'm sitting in a chair like I'm trying to sell a piece of banana to someone." Grantaire laughed out loud. He placed the brush next to the bunk so as not to paint the canvas under the onslaught of laughter. "What?" The blond asked, confused. He was a little offended by Grantaire's reaction.

"It's just that… you think of bananas when you’re naked."

Enjolras's face didn't change, it was just as stony, and he just sighed again. "Are you thirteen?"

"I will be eleven in my soul forever. Still the young boy who accidentally found porn on his dad's computer and there was no going back."

"I wonder what he had there that made you such a person. No, wait, I changed my mind. Don't tell me.” Grantaire laughed again, wanting to return to painting as Enjolras shivered and began to stretch. "I'm sorry, my body hurts a little already."

"You can take a break. Not a problem. There's a good pizzeria on the corner of the street, if you’re hungry.”

"It's not necessary, but thank you." Enjolras put his hands on his knees and shook his head several times to relax his stiff muscles. "But I would like to return to the original question. Am I not too boring?”

"You? Boring? Never."

"But I would still imagine the euphoria a little different."

"Really?" There was a challenge in Grantaire's voice.

"Um," Enjolras growled, looking into the brunette's eyes. "I don't have experience in relationships, so I can't say how I would portray the joy of love or the happiness of love. But physical euphoria is no stranger to me."

"Don't tell," Grantaire said in surprise.

Enjolras blinked and smiled. "Courfeyrac confused you with all those stories about my virginity."

"Well, I wouldn't say completely confused. Because we, like most, have never seen you with anyone, so we thought…. ” He didn’t finish.

But Enjolras knew very well what he wanted to say. "It's alright. I don’t mind. But you're wrong. And maybe it could help you now."

"How?" Grantaire asked, trying not to think that someone had already touched Enjolras. He always looked so inaccessible. How could such a cold man find a partner? Although, he said he had never experienced love and a relationship. Did that mean that Enjolras had one night stands experience? That he could make love to a stranger and leave in the morning as if nothing had ever happened?

He swallowed. Nothing like that suited him to Enjolras. But his imagination was in full swing.

As if Enjolras sensed it, he smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I think this would be better." He put his right hand behind his head, looking as if he were leaning on it. He lifted his chin a little. He looked at Grantair a little from the top. He opened his mouth slightly and bit it. They were suddenly a little darker. "And this." With that, he moved his left hand to his crotch. He clenched his fingers into the fabric and gripped her tightly. The fabric depicted in detail what was hidden beneath it.

Grantaire widened his eyes. They could only look at one place. He wet his lips with his tongue and cleared his throat weakly. "If it’s comfortable."

"It is," Enjolras admitted, smiling. "But this might make it even more comfortable." He moved his fingers a little closer to his pride, which he ran his fingers a few times. Just in outline, but Grantaire didn't miss how his cock twitched under the cloth and grew a little bigger.

"Who are you and what did you do with Enjolras?" Grantaire asked in disbelief. What  _ the hell  _ was going on?

"I'm  _ Euphoria  _ now, remember?" Enjolras asked, examining Grantaire from head to toe and smiling mischievously. "And my strength seems to affect you."

Grantaire looked at his crotch, which was slightly raised. It was too visible in his black pants. When did it happen? How did it happen? He looked back at Enjolras. But no one could be surprised. God himself sat before him. "Are you seducing me?" Grantaire asked a little cheekily, taking a step forward.

Enjolras didn't even flinch, his fingers still taking care of his swollen cock. "Maybe. That's my job, isn't it?”

"I thought we had a break now."

"In that case, I'll be happy to see if I'm the right model for you."

Grantaire didn’t finish the painting that night.


	29. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author makes his own relationship with each story - Every other story, theme, book - loves everything like his own children (who often don’t listen to the author and do what they want, until the author suffers from it and eats ice cream in the evenings). And today, with my nose up, I admit that today's story is officially my favorite from this series. It was easy to wrote, I enjoyed writing it and not once did I get to a point where I didn't know what to do next (which usually happens to me with every story, at least for a while). So I hope that you will feel at least a little how much I enjoyed today's writing and that you will also like the story. :)

Grantaire packed his brushes and papers in his backpack, said goodbye to his classmates, and, like every other Friday, left for the subway train instead of his apartment. This brought him almost to the other end of Paris. He got out there, walking expertly through several tangled alleys until he reached the door of a small cafe. The windows were barricaded, there were several flower pots on the terrace with unmaintained flowers, and a black cat lay in front of the threshold. There was no name above the door to indicate that there was anything behind it.

Grantaire crouched, scratching the cat under his chin, which thanked him with a soft whimper and let him in. As soon as Grantaire opened the door, the smell of burnt wood, oranges, and vanilla punched him in the nose, making him smile. The cafe was decorated in dark wood, there were several chairs with gray or orange covers. The tables were tiny, with a round, yellow candle on each. There were carved holes in the walls, into which were inserted a few strange flowers that grew in purple to almost black color. There were only a few people sitting in the cafe.

Grantaire accidentally found the cafe three months ago as he wandered drunkenly through the streets of Paris, looking for a hotel to sleep in or someone to offer him lodges. Instead, he ended up here, with Mrs. Houchelop, who smiled broadly at him, laid him on one of the couches, and made him herbal tea, which immediately got him from his drunken state. Something here screamed  _ home  _ for him more than when he opened the door to his apartment, which was simply too cold.

He came here every Friday. At first, just because it was the only day he didn't have to go to work and enjoy a moment of peace. He sat down in his typical place in a corner, by a walled window where a red cat was rolling. He scratched her belly, took his backpack off his back, and the owner brought him jasmine tea and freshly baked rhubarb cake without a word. "Your favorite," she told him before kissing his hair and walking back to the bar. The best cakes were baked here every Friday. But Grantaire came here mainly because of—

The door opened again. Even though no light entered the room, everyone felt that the sun itself had entered the cafe. The boy, who couldn’t be much younger than Grantaire, immediately looked at the owner, smiled at her, and greeted her warmly. As always, he ordered black coffee, no milk, no sugar. He sat down in his usual place. On the seat just behind Grantaire. Grantaire examined him before he sat down. He was tall and still seemed to grow, his hair freshly cut, and Grantaire had no idea if he liked it more when they licked his shoulders or now that he had finally seen his long, milky neck with a protruding vein. His eyes were tired, he didn't seem to have slept in a few days. As always, he opened his backpack, pulled out a book wrapped in a red cover, and began reading. Grantaire had never seen what he read. His shoulders relaxed and a faint smile spread across his face. Similar to the one he dedicated to everyone around him.

Grantaire reached for his backpack. He opened it, pulled out his favorite sketchbook and a small pencil. He opened it on a new page and started painting. He didn't think about what he was doing, how many moves he had made, what he wanted to draw. His mind was blank. His hands painted something they had known for a long time, but his mind forgot.

The face of a young stranger appeared on paper. As always, he was beautiful. His hair was very short, his figure a little more robust, and a little taller than he seemed now, but his eyes were the same cold and large. Straight stance, hands behind the back, uniform on the body. A baton and a gun around his waist. Cap on the head. A large, silver emblem on the cap.

Grantaire stopped painting. He smiled sadly. He hoped for one thing. That  _ this time _ avoided them. But they seemed to have no choice. Their history has become more cruel and difficult every year. He sighed and, self-denying, began to draw the shape of an eagle on his cap. Suddenly he understood why the young man had such a cold, absent expression on his face. His uniform defined his time, but not his mind. He was always there with those who were against the system and tyranny.

He felt his whole hand tremble. The cruelty didn’t suit his beautiful figure and character. It's almost as if he dreamed it up. His hand jerked into the right corner. Outline of a thinner figure. Smaller. The boy looked younger. His hair was thick, black, curly. Before he painted a sharp nose and frightened eyes, he knew he was painting himself. He was wearing dirty clothes, torn in some places. He had the weapon of the man behind him at his head. He, too, wore an ornament that defined him. The black and white star shone in yellow color in his head.

"Oh, thank you." Grantaire stopped painting for a moment. He looked ahead. The young man smiled and thanked the owner for bringing him his favorite coffee. As always, he placed a strawberry shortcake, which the blond didn't touch. He never ate in a cafe.

His head started to ache. His ears began to whistle faintly. He groaned softly and closed his eyes. He rested his head in his hands and took a deep breath. He knew what would follow.

_ Grantaire walked down a narrow corridor. A weapon stabbed him in the ribs, ready to fire at any time. Two men in black uniforms followed him, red swastika ribbons shining on their arms. They didn't speak, their cheeks awkward and cold. His chest ached, he couldn't breathe properly. The hallway was slippery and dirty. Every now and then he slipped and the weapon sank even more into his skin. It hurted. He was barefoot, his feets bloody. A few weeks ago, he wounded his right heel, which smelled and a dark yellow liquid was leaking out from her. His ankle was swollen. He needed a doctor to look at his wound. He knew he could lose his leg otherwise. And he needed her. So that he can live. As a strong young man, he still had the opportunity to live for a few years. Find a gap between the walls of the camp and escape. He needed both legs for that. _

_ They reached the end of the corridor. The man, who wasn’t holding a gun, walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it. The other man pushed into Grantaire. He fell to his knees directly into a large puddle. He groaned in pain. His aching heel cracked, blood and pus began to flow from it. "Commander," said one of the men, walking over to Grantaire. "Is that him?" He grabbed his hair and pulled hard. He tilted his head so far that Grantaire didn't have a chance to breathe or swallow. He opened his eyes. They burned him. The sun wasn’t shining outside, it was cloudy, it stopped raining just minutes ago, the puddles and wet grass everywhere. Even so, the real world was too bright. He was locked for two months. His eyes got used to the darkness and the flickering light at the end of the corridor, which he never reached thanks to the bars that kept him inside 5 square meters. _

_ "Show me." He recognized the voice. He blinked a few times. The fog in front of his pupils finally melted. In front of him stood a man in a beautiful, black uniform. His shoes were freshly polished, not a drop of rain or mud on them. His hands were behind his back. His posture was proud and firm, his chest off. He was the only one wearing cap on his head with a freshly polished silver screaming eagle gleaming. The man picked up a baton, which he had tied with his weapon around his waist. He aimed at Grantaire with him and patted him on the cheek several times. The man let go of his hair. The young man put a baton under his chin. He knelt so they could look each other in the eye. _

_ Those eyes. Oh, those eyes. They were beautiful. Blue, quiet and large. He had several yellow flames around his pupils. His eyes looked like nightly dandelions. They expanded and hid again. He glared at him. "It's him," he said, slapping him on the throat with his baton. Grantaire groaned unhappily. It hurted. He was too sensitive on his neck. For a few seconds, a smile spread on the young man's face. _

_ He got up and began to speak to the men in a language Grantaire didn’t speak. From the rudeness of the language, he knew it was German. His mother always told him to learn to speak German and English that he would need them one day. He never listened. He ridiculed her that German wasn’t an artistic language, and he, as a true artist and a believer of beauty, would never need it. If only he knew… _

_ "Come with me," said the young man, this time in French, and turned his back on Grantaire. Grantaire stood up and slowly followed the young man, limping. His right heel burned and the pain shot out of his thigh. _

_ They walked for a few minutes. No one was outside. He saw only fences behind which were several wooden houses. There was too much silence. As if everyone around was dying. He fidgeted. He didn't want to think about death. He tried to avoid her. She was everywhere. It seeped through the air, landed on his clothes, annoyed his mind. He needed to forget at least once what was happening around the world. _

_ The young man walked in front of a large, brick house with a massive door. He opened the door and motioned for Grantaire to come inside. Grantaire obeyed without a word. The young man closed behind them and walked up the stairs to the first floor. Grantaire had to hold on to the railing to avoid falling. His ankle swelled a little more along the way. He felt like it would burst at any moment. _

_ They came to another door, to which the young man had a key for. He unlocked it and went inside. He left the door open. Grantaire understood. He entered the room and closed it behind him. The room was spacious, airy. In one corner was a large, mahogany table with several neatly arranged papers and a black telephone. Light streamed into the room from two large windows, which the young man began to draw with thick, red curtains. On the other side of the room was a spacious bed with red sheets and brown canopies. There were a few paintings on the walls from authors he didn’t recognize. Apparently they were still unknown authors. Or stolen works from many war raids. _

_ The young man closed the second window. He turned to Grantaire and looked into his eyes. It was dark in the room. Even so, his beautiful blue eyes shone. There was no cold in them this time. But warm. It spilled all over his body and soothed him like his mother's arms. _

_ Grantaire can't stand the sight. His eyes filled with tears that immediately began to drip down his cheeks. He began to sob loudly. He covered his face with his hands so that the young man wouldn’t have to look at him. But he had been with him a long time ago. He grabbed his palms into his own and forced him to look at him. "Don't cry, Grantaire," he whispered softly as he leaned his forehead against his and stroked his nose several times with the tip of his. _

_ "Enjolras," Grantaire finally whispered the name of the young man standing in front of him. He squeezed his palms. He cried even loudly. He moaned. He couldn't breathe. His body was supple and his knees broke. Enjolras noticed. He released his hands and hugged him around the side. He pulled him to his body, laid his head on his shoulder, and let him cry. The fabric of his uniform was wet in a minute. _

_ When Grantaire calmed down after a few minutes, he was no longer crying, just wheezing, Enjolras grabbed his hand and walked slowly to the door next to the bed. He opened them and they entered the room together. He closed behind them, turned on a small light on a stool next to a large mirror, and began to undress Grantaire. He was careful not to touch a single of his scars, bruises, or fresh wounds that looked so ugly. _

_ Grantaire, looked at his reflection, after several months in a dungeon. The sight didn't even scare him anymore. Earlier, when he saw himself in the reflection of glass on a window or in a puddle, he was startled by how strange he looked. But now his appearance left him cold. Always clear, brown and warm brown eyes, today obscured by pain. His hair was greasy, tangled, falling to his shoulders. He had stubble on his face, and the guards always relied on seeing them in the face and shaving them awkwardly. He had two deep scars on his chin and face from their work. His body was weak and thin, with ribs visible in some places and bones protruding from his hips. His right arm was strangely twisted. It has been broken several times. The soldiers beat him with batons every time he refused to obey their imperial greeting. He had a few bruises on his body, some from batons, some from kicks, others just from how clumsy he was. His entire back and thighs were strewn with cuts. Consequences of torture. Some wounds were already healed and faded. However, they remained on his body like scars that no longer disappeared. _

_ When Enjolras stripped him naked, he grabbed his palm and walked with him to a round container that served as a bathtub. It was full to the brim. Enjolras checked his fingers to see if the water was still warm enough. He smiled and pulled his fingers out. Carefully he helped Grantaire over the edge and sat him inside. _

_ Grantaire fidgeted. He bathed for the last time the day before the police knocked on his door, saying they needed to talk to him. Behind the police stood several families from the street he had known for exactly as long as he had moved in Provence. There was fear on their faces. The policeman asked him not to resist. He looked discreetly to the left, where on the ground, without a single reverence, lay the corpse of a man with whom he had played dominoes a few days before. Grantaire just nodded. He hasn't been home since. _

_ He didn't realize that he was crying until Enjolras stroked his cheek and washed away a few tears with lukewarm water. He said nothing. He washed his dirty body and concentrated on not hurting him. He was unnaturally gentle. He didn't know him like that. He began to cry even more. But this time without loud sobs. He let his tears flow freely over his cheeks and enjoyed the hot touch of water and Enjolras' palms. _

_ He didn't realize how he smelled until Enjolras helped him out of the tub and began drying him with a soft towel. His stomach heaved as his sensitive nose smelled of his clothes lying in the corner of the bathroom. Enjolras dressed him in a white shirt and trousers. He took his hand again and led him to the room they had come into. He sat him on the edge of the bed the moment someone knocked on the door. Then twice more. And after the break, one more time. _

_ Enjolras opened the door and let a man in a white cloak enter. They began to speak German, and Grantaire felt the annoying pressure in his stomach again. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe he was scared. The two emotions had merged with him for the last few months. The man laughed. A deep, throaty laugh. It scared Grantaire. It sounded like thunder. He looked at the man, who seemed to laugh at the joke Enjolras had told him. Since when did a blonde tell jokes? And what did he tell him so funny? He also wanted to understand it all… _

_ The man knelt in front of Grantaire and touched his aching leg. He jumped at his touch. The man looked at him. He had a sincere interest in his eyes. He said nothing and pointed to the bag he laid beside the bed. There was medical equipment in it. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, who just nodded. Grantaire relaxed and pushed his foot toward the man, who smiled and began to examine her from all angles. Then he began to speak. The language that frustrated and terrified Grantaire. Enjolras answered him matter-of-factly. He said one, two, sometimes just three words. Grantaire understood only the words "Nein" and "Ja". _

_ As soon as the last "Ja" sounded, the man bent Grantaire's leg down. Grantaire cried out in pain and tried to pull his leg back to his body. "It's all right, Grantaire," Enjolras said as he approached him, sitting down next to him and wrapping his arms around him. "Uwe needs to check if you broke your ankle." _

_ "I don’t. Can he stop?” _

_ Enjolras began to talk to Uwe about something. The man looked too serious and pulled his glasses from the bag. He put them on his nose and immediately started looking for other things in the bag. As soon as he pulled a scalpel out of it, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire by the chin and forced him to look at him. "I need you to be calm now. And didn't twitch much." _

_ "What will he do to me?" Grantaire asked, frightened. _

_ "The heel is very inflamed. Uwe needs to cut it open and get all the pus out. Otherwise you would lose it soon. At best," he said. _

_ "At best?" _

_ "If he hadn't treated your heel, the inflammation would have progressed to your entire leg until blood poisoning could eventually occur." Enjolras stroked his cheek. "Please lie on your back. Uwe will treat your leg.” Grantaire shaked. He was about to object, but Enjolras added, "I'll be here with you all the time. Look," he said as he helped Grantaire lie down so that his leg was outstretched and at the ideal height for Uwe to see. Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's hands and squeezed him tightly. "If it hurts, feel free to squeeze me tightly." He stroked his cheek and began wiping all the tears from his eyes with his thumb. "I'll be here all the time, I promise." _

_ Enjolras kept his promise. Although Grantaire winced, trying to escape the gentle touches. Although Grantaire began to cry and beg him to let him go. Although Grantaire began to scream in pain as Uwe cutted his heel with a scalpel. Even though Enjolras bit his shirt so that his screams wouldn’t be heard so much. Although Grantaire fainted from exhaustion. _

_ When he opened his eyes again, he was lying alone in bed. His head was laid in a soft pillow, his body covered with a thick blanket. His leg was bandaged and he could smell disinfectant. He turned his head to the side. Enjolras sat in a chair beside the bed, reading. As soon as he felt his gaze on his body, he set the book down on the bedside table and snuggled up to Grantaire. They looked into each other's eyes. _

_ "You're alive," the brunette broke the silence between them. Enjolras just nodded. "You're on the wrong side, don't you think?" He tried to laugh, but he couldn't. His face no longer knew how to form a smile. _

_ "I'll explain everything to you. But not until the morning. You should sleep now.” And Grantaire obeyed. _

_ In the morning, a hot breakfast with hot tea awaited him. But Grantaire just nibbled on dry bread and drank some bitter tea. After so many months of being forced to starve or eat only moldy food, his stomach was contracted. As he ate breakfast, Enjolras sat at his desk, writing something in several diaries in which Grantaire dimly saw a few numbers that told him nothing. His black, Nazi uniform hung trimmed, ironed, clean beside him. It looked too proud and beautiful. Grantaire's stomach heaved. He covered his mouth and groaned loudly. _

_ Enjolras turned to the bed. He frowned when he saw Grantaire leaning forward, holding his mouth with one hand and his stomach with the other. "Does anything hurt?" He asked as he rose from the table and walked over to him. Instead of answering, Grantaire took several deep breaths and hugged Enjolras around his waist. He pressed his head against his stomach and squeezed it as if seeing him for the first time. Enjolras began stroking his hair with his fingers. The way he always did when he tried to calm the brunette down. _

_ Enjolras smiled at him as Grantaire pulled away from him and looked into his eyes. He sat down next to him, the fingers of his palms intertwined and the blonde started talking. He spoke of his family, who received word of Hitler's troops raiding Paris. He spoke of his father, who as a politician took part in one of the meetings where the fate of Paris was to be decided. He never returned from the meeting. When the soldiers reached the farm, where his whole family was hidden, they demanded only one thing - Enjolras. They wanted to see the clever, young man his father admired and loved. Which he spoke of only in superlatives. He was educated, politically proficient, he knew how war worked, even though it was the only one he had ever lived in his life. He was the only one in the immediate area who spoke German, so the soldiers offered to become their translator. Either that, or be shot at a wall with his mother. For her protection, he agreed. His mother could stay on the farm and take care of the farm, which was just a fairy tale in a cruel world. He wrote her letters, sometimes calling her. He needed to hear that she was protected from the fate of the war. She spoke sadly, begging him to return home. He always promised to see her soon. But he knew he couldn't leave yet. He had a lot of work to do. _

_ "Are you cooperating with the Allies?" Enjolras looked into Grantaire's eyes. He wondered for a moment if he should explain it all - talk about how hard he tried to protect his friends, his family, France. About what he cared about. If he was to explain to him why he was volunteering his life to finally end this cruel war. "You fool!" Grantaire said in the softest voice he could. "You've always been crazy." He touched his cheek and forced the blond to look at him. His eyelids fluttered. Dry swallowed. He licked his lips with his tongue. "You always try to save everyone, but now it can really kill you, Enjolras," he said before leaning over and kissing him. Enjolras moaned immediately. His fingers began to touch Grantaire's ear, where he had always been sensitive. He immediately moved his fingers to his black, curly hair and began kissing him passionately. _

_ Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't been so close to anyone in a long time. Maybe it was the fact that he was excited to find Grantaire alive. Maybe it was the fact that inside the proud commander in the black uniform that made him hate himself, there was still only a small, frightened boy who feared war. That night they made love again after two years. They touched roughly, kissing very passionately until saliva flowed to their chins. Their injuries were very painful and disparate. They needed to prove that the other one was there. They needed to feel pain to be sure it wasn’t a dream but a reality. They needed each other. _

_ As they lay in their arms, Grantaire played with Enjolras' necklace, which he had received from his mother for his twentieth birthday, a few days before Germany invaded Poland and declared World War II; Enjolras spoke again. About what he did. What was his mission. He talked about the future. He talked about how soon the war would end, how all this would be just the past. He spoke proudly of his work, of his disguise. About how he hates his uniform, but we let him come to power. "They admire me, Grantaire. Not only soldiers, but also politicians. Leading. They want me to be in the room with them, have fun with them, teach them French. They want me to celebrate their success and drink expensive cognacs with them. I'm doing it. I hate myself for it… But once I point a gun at their heads and hear them quietly begging for my life, I'll enjoy it like never before, ”he told him before they both fell asleep exhausted. _

_Grantaire didn’t leave Enjolras's bedroom. He woke up everyday and breakfast lay on the table. He had clothes ready by the bed - always a freshly white shirt with lavender scent and long, linen trousers. He only looked out the window once. The sun was shining and the rays illuminated the track, which was only a few meters away from the camp. On that sunny day, a new train arrived. One hundred men stepped out of it. Some held a bag in their arms, in which they had all their livelihoods and money. They pushed them to their chests as a last resort. They lined up the men in two rows. The first went with several soldiers to the camp, where others were waiting for them. After the gate closed behind them, the second row lined up in parallel rows of ten. Twenty soldiers arrived, all loaded with weapons. One by one, they started firing. Some tried to escape. They brutally beat them before piercing their skulls. Some urinated or vomited in fear. The soldiers made fun of them and stripped them naked so they could kill them like newborns. Some fainted. The soldiers dragged themselves aside and waited for them to wake up. They killed them last. When they killed the last man who knelt and begged not to kill his son standing next to him; other soldiers arrived, in beige and brown uniforms with long chariots pulled by six prisoners, thin to the bone._ _They loaded the corpses on the carriages and forced the prisoners to drag the men to the other gate, where they were thrown into a large pit that served as a mass grave. As one of the soldiers poured water on the ground several times to wash away all the blood, another chariot arrived. This time the children traveled in it. The oldest couldn’t be ten years old. The soldiers were joined by men in long white cloaks. They took away everyone who was sick or just sniffing. They laughed at them and handed them teddy bears. Some children saw toys for the first time in their lives. They returned their wide smiles and held their hands so they could leave with them. There were more soldiers, they divided the children into several groups. Only one was homogeneous - the oldest boys, between the ages of eight and ten, who were taller, more veined and wider for their age, remained standing in front of the track. When the other groups left with the soldiers, Enjolras approached them. He greeted them and began to speak with them, the only one who spoke their native language. He told them something about the future, about hope, about what it meant to carry the pride of the nation. He forced the boys to strip to their underwear and, together with other soldiers, handed them packages, which they began to unpack eagerly. They were uniforms. Military uniforms. Enjolras had just enlisted the young boys to become another unit in this disgusting war._

_ Grantaire pulled back the window with a thick curtain. He hasn't looked out the window since. He never asked Enjolras what he was doing during the day. What was written in the papers he still carried with him. Why he had blood on his shoes and needed them polished them every night. He knew that survival was possible even in ignorance. And his was too sweet. _

_ Every day he looked at the three photographs Enjolras had hung over the table. He was in one with his parents, he could have been a maximum of five years old. He held a huge bouquet in his hand, missing two front teeth. His parents smiled broadly, wearing formal clothes. Apparently it was a photo from the first day of school. The second photo was from a wedding. Both his parents were on it, hugging each other and looking into each other's eyes. Enjolras was a copy of his father, only his features were softer. In the last photo, were the two of them. He remembered the time the photo was taken. _

_ They were only thirteen years old. They worked in the fields over the summer. They were the youngest, so the farmer decided to put them in the same room. In the morning they had breakfast and always drank a glass of fresh milk, which they both hated. They competed over which of them did more work in the field. After lunch, they always fell asleep in the hayloft for twenty minutes. They always woke up in each other's arms. They looked at each other, saying nothing. Enjolras held Grantaire tightly around his hips, and Grantaire cuddled to his chest, under which his young heart was beating fast. They were the last to leave the field for dinner. They ate slowly and quarreled, sometimes throwing beans or peas at each other. They washed together, always back to back. They went into the room wrapped in towels and changed so that the other wouldn’t see them naked. In the evening, when only the moonlight streamed into the room, they talked. Some things out loud - about how they will become adults and will one day fulfill their dreams, Enjolras knew at such a young age that he wanted to be a politician, and Grantaire loved art and painting, which he shared with his bohemian mother, who worked in cabaret, so he wanted to be a painter - some quietly - for example, what a strange warmth they felt in their lower abdomen whenever they began to touch places they weren’t allowed to talk about. _

_ Warm days awakened puberty in their bodies. They went to a nearby lake while working with girls and boys - usually two to three years older. They sat in the shallows and watched the others play. The girls always ripped off their clothes and bathed naked. Their breasts bigger, their hips wider. There was hair on their bodies that the two of them still didn't have. Their long hair fell on their backs and they laughed. Their voices were like honey. They stuck to their skin. All the boys stared at them, some playing with them in the water, others having to sit ashore to cover their bulging erections. Some were brave and tried to touch some girls. Some succeeded and the girls gave them a few seconds of hot touch, some were slapped and sprayed with water. Most of the time, however, they left together not far from the lake and returned a few minutes later. Both short of breath, red and satisfied. _

_ This was the youth everyone dreamed of. Carefree. In love. Enjolras and Grantaire also felt the pressure on them. But their bodies didn’t respond to the beautiful girls. They focused on the boy. As their shoulders widened. As a large apple loomed around their necks and their voices changed depth. How they grew and their pride with them. Some measured themselves in the showers and laughed at who was "smaller". They, like the two youngest, were left out of their almost adult games and took them as their younger brothers, who were still innocent. _

_ But growing up with older friends had an effect. Their bodies, which were changing, wanted to know everything that their older friends had already experienced and, in their own words, enjoyed. And so once, after an afternoon sleep in the hayloft, instead of looking into each other's eyes for a long time, they kissed each other. Slightly, they didn't really know what they were doing. How should they kiss properly? And was it kissing at all? They didn't know. All they had to do was make their hearts pound, their hands touching foreign bodies, and it was pleasantly hot in their lower abdomen again. Even their baths have changed. They leaned against their foreheads and measured the differences in their bodies. For example, Grantaire's voice was rougher and his shoulders wider, while Enjolras grew very tall and his hips widened like girls. They no longer talked out loud about anything at night. Their conversations grew quieter, and the room rang only, "Quiet, or someone will hear us." Words of what they would like to experience once became deeds. After a few nights, even touches. After Grantaire had once crept into Enjolras's duvets and rubbed their swollen cocks against each other, they fell asleep together in their arms in one bed. They always reached the top before that, which put them to sleep. _

_ Summer passed quickly, and the boys didn’t see each other for a long time, until Enjolras's mother decided to hire a woman on her farm, who was fired from the cabaret. She was to be tried for robbery, but Enjolras's father stood up for her. She and her 16-year-old son went to the farm, where they started working. As soon as Enjolras saw Grantaire's black, curly hair at breakfast, he stood sternly in the doorway. Grantaire also lost a piece of meat from a fork. They looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time. Then, after a moment of awkward silence, they smiled broadly at each other. And in the evening, after staring hungrily at each other, despite a full plate of food in front of them, Enjolras led Grantair to a hayloft, where they repeated what they had not experienced in three years. The release they both needed. _

_ Enjolras lived in Paris with his father. He learned from him. He worked to afford a prestigious college. But every month he commuted to the countryside to see his mother, and especially Grantaire. He didn't work, just watched from the window as Grantaire mowed the fields or groomed the horses. They went for rides together, bathed naked in the lake, competed to see who would be at dinner the fastest when they ran out of the distant forest. They kissed every possible moment, made love in the hayloft, and contented themselves with the ways they read in books that were definitely not for their eyes. _

_ When Grantaire was twenty, his mother fell ill. She stopped eating, vomiting a lot. She began to faint, coughing up blood. She died two months after being bedridden. In a fever, in a frenzy. Grantaire, who sat by her side all the time and washed her regularly with lukewarm water and tried to feed at least pieces of bread, was no longer recognized. She just asked if he was an angel and she was about to leave. The last time she exhaled, Grantaire was grateful. He covered the face of a woman who was no longer his mother. _

_ A year later, Grantaire decided to fulfill his dream. Over the years on the farm, he saved money that could feed him for six months in a big city. For years he talked about Provence, how he would one day become a great artist. Paris never attracted him because of his memories of his mother. He hated the city and considered it dirty. The only thing that kept him on the farm was Enjolras. Their nightly pleasures, their common kisses, their promises they couldn’t fulfill. But it was Enjolras who persuaded Grantaire to leave. To follow his dream and be happy. The last time they saw each other, they just ate fruit all day and made love. Every free moment they were able to do so, they immersed themselves in each other's warm eyes and touches. They thanked their young bodies for allowing them to experience endless euphoria. _

_ They wrote letters. Sometimes they called. They met in Paris every year. Always just for the weekend. They didn't remember what they were doing, except that they were constantly lying in each other’s arms. After all, their paths parted, but the passion remained the same. _

_ However, they haven’t seen each other since the beginning of the war. They contacted each month to make sure they were alive. They promised that once this was all over, they would go to Italy together, where they would start from the beginning. They will forget the past and live only for each other. It sounded beautiful. It kept them alive. _

_ Half a year ago, when the soldiers took Grantaire to the train platform and forced him and several dozen other residents to change into uniforms with yellow stars on them, they lost contact. Every day Grantaire prayed that Enjolras would live. All he knew was that he was still in Paris and traveling a lot. After his father mysteriously died, Grantaire lost any awareness of what the blond was actually doing. Maybe he should have been more interested. Maybe he would tell him he was on the "wrong side" a long time ago. Perhaps he would confide in him with his plans to betray the Leader and help end the war. Or he would lie to him. _

_ "Remember?" Grantaire didn't even notice Enjolras entering the room. He could feel his touch on his hips and gentle kisses on his neck. Grantaire didn’t answer. He leaned his head against his shoulder, letting his inquisitive hands take care of him as best they could. He moaned aloud. He let his sighs soak into the silence of the walls. He wanted him to label himself here forever. So that Enjolras would never forget him. For those few warm minutes, everything ceased to exist. War, pain, despair. All that remained was beautiful ignorance. _

_ But Grantaire knew that their wonderful fairy tale wouldn’t last long. Enjolras began to behave strangely. He didn't talk, he kept pacing the room, talking about something. Whenever he was upset, he started cursing in German. Grantaire didn't understand him, but he never interrupted him. He understood that it was sometimes better not to ask. Their lovemaking was rough, endless. Enjolras took him whenever he could. He wasn’t so gentle, he also touched scars and sore bruises that still didn’t want to disappear. He leaned painfully on Grantaire where he had just decided to take him. The table, the floor, the wall, the windowsill. Grantaire didn't care. All he needed to do was feel his warmth spilling inside him and filling him with happiness for a moment. _

_ A week later it was raining heavily. The sky was still dark and cloudy. The sun hadn't shone for two days. Strong storms were coming from the south, shaking the window frames. Grantaire often heard gunfire and screams. Swearing he didn't understand. He didn't ask. He didn't want to know what was going on. _

_ When it thundered loudly again and the sky lit up, Enjolras came into the bedroom. Wet from the heavy rain, he wiped his mouth with his wet sleeve and began to look for something on his desk. In a moment, he found several documents and clothes. "Put it on," he told Grantaire, throwing at him the uniform in which the soldiers had first taken him to the concentration camp. The fabric pinched Grantaire on his fingers. A dumpling made in his throat. Tears immediately welled up in his eyes. "Grantaire, please, we don't have time," Enjolras asked desperately, kissing his forehead. Cold lips. Cold hands. Grantaire was scared. This wasn’t Enjolras. He began to cry. He wailed, putting on him a uniform he hated as much as the Enjolras’ one. Sometimes he wanted to chew it nto tiny pieces. _

_ Enjolras spoke again. He was talking to someone at the door. It sounded urgent. He recognized the other voice. Grantaire wiped all the tears from his face, and another tried to blink in his eyes. Uwe stood in the doorway, followed by another man in a commanding uniform. He recognized him. He was the commander of the entire concentration camp. Egon Zill. He looked anxiously at Enjolras, who was breathing rapidly, his eyes still running around the room. When he noticed Grantaire's gaze, he walked over to him and kissed him hungrily on the lips without any shyness. Grantaire, unable to understand what was happening, buried his fingers in his hair and enjoyed his kisses as if it were the last time. _

_ As they pulled away, Enjolras wiped saliva and tears from his lips with his finger; and stroked his cheek roughly. "You must leave, Grantaire," he whispered breathlessly, trying to smile. It didn't work. "This will protect you." He pulled a pink triangle from his pocket. He stuck it on his chest. Grantaire looked at him confused. He didn’t know this sign. What did that mean? "Grantaire, I promise to return for you. We'll be together again. But now you need to leave, okay? You go to safety. Uwe and Egon will take care of you. " _

_ "Where am I going?" _

_ "To Flossenburg." _

_ Grantaire didn’t know the place. He had never heard of it. But it didn't sound French. He fidgeted. "Am I leaving France?" _

_ "Yes. To the Sachsenhausen quarry.” Hard work. Even harsher conditions. Camp. Captivity. Grantaire cried again. "Grantaire, please don't cry." Enjolras kissed his forehead and hugged him tightly. His arms were as cold as any day here. Uwe began to say something. He insisted. They kept looking down with the other man. As if someone was chasing them. _

_ "Am I running away?" Grantaire asked as strong as he could. _

_ "Yes. But to safety. Believe me. When you arrive in Flossenburg by train, a man named Klaus Fraud will hand you over. Don't ask anything. Don't deny him. Don't fight back. Go with him. He's my friend. He will protect you. I promise." _

_ "All right, Enjolras," Grantaire whispered for the last time, kissing him on the mouth. "I believe you." _

"Oh," Grantaire muttered, finally opening his eyes. His chest was contracted and he was having trouble breathing. He drank jasmine tea. He needed it for exactly these occasions. It reassured him and helped him return to reality. He looked at the paper in front of him. Even as he remembered, his eyes closed, he painted. The image was now almost clearly drawn. There were only a few details left. True emotions. The date was written in the corner of the paper - September 10, 1942.

Grantaire reached for his backpack. He pulled a cell phone from his front pocket. Just like every time he painted something and a mysterious date appeared on paper, he set out to search. It wasn't hard to find answers to all the confused questions that immediately came to mind.

Natzweiler-Struthof concentration camp. Commander Egon Zill, who mysteriously disappeared without a trace one September evening, when there were strong storms. Pink triangles. Designation of homosexuals during World War II. Those who weren’t chosen by the commanders were sent to hard work, experimented on or killed straight away. Those who were “more lucky” became concubines of commanders and soldiers. "So you made a whore of me.”

"What, please?" Grantaire looked ahead in horror. Mrs. Houchelop had another piece of rhubarb cake in her hand and freshly brewed coffee with milk.

"Nothing," Grantaire said with a laugh, waving his hand. He turned off his cell phone and laid it on the table. He leaned his elbows on the sketchbook in front of him so she wouldn't see what he was drawing. "What are you bringing me?" He asked quickly, distracting.

"I thought you were frowning, so I was afraid something was going on. So I brought you another piece of cake.” She placed the plate on a small table. "But I see you haven't even touched what I brought you before. Don't you like it?”

"No, it's definitely great, I just haven't—"

"Goodbye." They both looked ahead. Enjolras had read another chapter of the mysterious book, finished his coffee, and got up from his desk. He stood at the bar, behind which stood a young girl, taking money from him. He said goodbye to Madam Houchelop in a familiar farewell, whom he took almost as his mother.

G rantaire was frightened. The painting wasn’t finished yet. He still needed a piece of memory to finish it.

It was like that every time. The first time he saw Enjolras, he knew that the shock that had passed through his entire body wasn’t just a desire or surprise for a beautiful man. It was neither love at first sight - as his friend who loved romantic movies would describe it - nor excitement. It was something deeper, more touching and more serious.

He took a sketchbook with him on another visit to the café. He waited a week for Enjolras to reappear in the doorway. He hoped to paint it, but his fingers did what they wanted. Neither his hand nor his wrist listened to him, and he moved without his knowledge. Grantaire was terrified. He wanted to quit, but he couldn't stop. His eyes were wide and he was shaking. As soon as he finished the weak outline, his head became tangled. Something so real appeared in front of him that he felt he had experienced it once before. When he opened his eyes, he found that only a few minutes had passed. A date appeared on the corner of the paper, and he repainted the sketch. During the shading, more and more memories came back to him until he painted the last move. He always finished it when Enjolras got up and left the cafe. Grantaire then stayed only a few minutes and went home. He fell asleep exhausted.

It's been three months. Every visit, every meeting with Enjolras - another picture. It's another memory of a past life. Grantaire was looking for something about it, about everything he had seen and experienced. What terrified him before had become part of him, which he had accepted in his craziest way. He looked at the painted sketches of the two at any moment. Each drawing was in a different period, they did something different in each time, they met differently. But it always ended the same way - they died together. Always two months after Enjolras celebrated his 26th birthday.

He knew they were living their thirteenth life. He was now painting the twelfth painting. It was the last. Grantaire was determined to show Enjolras all the paintings when he painted them. He knew his memories would come back to him as well as to him. He was just experiencing it himself now. It was hard, sometimes unbearable, and sometimes he wanted to talk to Enjolras and tell him everything. But he knew that if he did, he would ruin everything. It was not the right time yet. He needed to finish everything. Then only Enjorlas will believe him and live their past lives just like him.

He had hoped to visit the café for the last time today. That after painting the last piece, he would sit down with Enjolras and start talking to him. He had everything planned down to the smallest detail. He tried his speech several times in front of a mirror. He couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to be with him. He wanted to make love to him again. He wanted to protect him from dying together. He finally wanted to give him luck. He finally wanted to be with him as a real partner, who didn't have to worry about losing him one day.

But he didn't finish it. He still needed a few moves, he still needed to see the  _ end _ .

"Wait!" Grantaire shouted urgently.

Enjolras looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" He asked in a soft voice.

Grantaire took a breath, but immediately closed his mouth and swallowed dry. No. He couldn't do it. He couldn't mess it up. This was the only chance to finally make Enjolras happy. How not to let him die at last.

He looked at his desk and quickly picked up the cotton handkerchief he always carried in the fall. He suffered from the cold in the cold weather and a runny nose. He placed it next to the sketchbook in case he needed it. "Isn't that your handkerchief?"

"No, it's not," Enjolras replied immediately, smiling at him and leaving.

"Isn't that your handkerchief, honey?" Mrs. Houchelop asked, a raised eyebrow and a sly smile on her face.

“I didn’t trick you," Grantiare laughed, putting the handkerchief back on the table.

"Oh, I was wondering why you always look at him so in love."

"In love? Really?"

Madam just nodded. "Maybe next time, try something different. The used handkerchief probably didn't interest him."

"I'll try," Grantaire laughed, glancing at the table where his sketchbook lay. His fingers touched the outline of Enjolas' face. "I’ll try..."


	30. Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry? I'm sorry.  
> (In my defense! It was supposed to be more "detailed", but in the end I decided to keep it at the M-rate limit.)

"Don't you think it is time for you to find a girlfriend, sweetheart?" That was the sentence he'd heard since he was eighteen every time his parents had a big, family dinner at their home with all the relatives who were already reconciled to Enjolras's opinion on marriage; from his good, but still quite stubborn and old-fashioned, grandmother. She loved Enjolras, she read stories of knights to him from an early age, and exhibited every picture he painted for her. But she always tried to put him together with one of her friend’s granddaughters. It didn't matter if he was seven and he had just lost his first baby tooth; or if he was eleven and more interested in books than girls' skirts; or if he was fifteen and he kissed someone on the mouth for the first time - his classmate and class nerd Julien. His grandmother still dreamed of seeing him in a white suit one day - which was a tradition in their family, the thought of wearing a black or God forbid, dark blue, upset her stomach - with a beautiful girl by his side, where they will promise allegiance. She kept telling him how one day he would have a bunch of kids and be a great father, though every baby in his family cried when Enjolras took them into his arms.

Enjolras never spoiled her joy. He let her talk, dreaming of his perfect life, which told him nothing. Instead of a beautiful girl, he saw a well-built man, ideally with black hair and blue eyes. With a fine stubble and a hairy chest, with a small path that led to the hem of his pants. He saw a man who always smelled perfect cologne, but nothing matched his sweat after he worked hard at work. For example, as a warehouse worker or volunteer firefighter. He always imagined it when his grandmother began to tell him about the wedding. She thinks that his red cheeks and faint smile were from liking the ideas she was putting in his head. If only she knew what her grandson was thinking about…

Enjolras was gay and that wasn’t secret. He never hid it, but he never needed to confront anyone with his orientation. When he was sixteen and brought his first partner across the threshold of their house, his parents didn't even stop. They offered the boy something to eat, asked him what his name was and where they met, and gave them privacy. Enjolras was glad that his parents, who had always seemed a little conservative and measured, took him for who he was.

His grandmother knew it too. She had a good memory, so she must have remembered that once he was ill and she came to their house unannounced to bring him hot chicken soup, he slept in his room and had in his hands an erotic magazine full of male nudes. It belonged to his mother. He stole it when he was ten and guarded it as his treasure. Thanks to the bent sides, she knew he had read it several times. She laid the soup on the table and left. She never told him anything, and although Enjolras knew that his orientation wasn’t unknown to her, her speech didn’t abate. "You're her favorite grandson, don't take her pleasure," his mother told him as he began to feel too much for him, clenching his fists in his thighs and wanting to ask his grandmother if she could stop.

The older he got, the easier it was for him to ignore her story. He always began to notice her again when she asked him what was going on at school or what he was planning for the holidays. Until then, however, his thoughts ran far away. Somewhere he was normally afraid of. He imagined what his perfect world would look like. Next to a man with whom they would buy an apartment in Paris overlooking the Eiffel Tower and buy a Russian Samoyed puppy. He knew what love was. Despite his innocent appearance and cool look, he could always choose any man he wanted. He always chose for a long time and brought only the best to himself. But his relationships never lasted much. Over time, everyone began to mind how inaccessible and cold he was. Although he tried to prove his affection for his deeds, it was not enough. His partners needed to hear that he loved them. But it wasn’t easy for him. They also complained about his touch, which seemed too harsh. He kept most of his things to himself, he didn't confide in him, he kept secrets, and that was mostly what divided him and his partners. He respected all their eccentricities, trying to understand their natures and feelings, but it was always them who left first.  _ "One day you'll find someone who won't mind,"  _ they said as they left with backpacks full of their belongings.

Enjolras therefore thought that He just wasn't a good "dating material". Each of his friends was special. And their relationships were almost perfect. They were the first to break up, rarely getting dumped. Enjolras was frustrated to such an extent that he decided it would be better not to date at all and forget about any relationships. He focused his mind fully on school, his work, and  _ Les Amis _ . That filled him with happiness.

Grandma spoke for several more hours. The sun was setting outside, the sky was darkening, and the first stars were beginning to appear in the sky. The close family decided to leave slowly. Everyone said goodbye to Enjolras at the door, as if they had seen him for the last time. He knew he was a favorite of everyone in their family. Why? He never actually asked. But he enjoyed everyone sincerely smiling at him and patting him on the back. "Let you have a dream about your future wedding," Grandma laughed as she hugged him tightly and kissed him on the cheek.

"Sure, Grandma," he said with a smile, helping her into the car. He closed the door behind her and tapped the door with his palms as a signal for a driver to go. He waited outside until he saw the car turn to a corner and disappear into the night.

He went home, helped his parents clean everything from the table, made hot tea, picked up a cake baked by his aunt, who was a pastry chef, and everything from her was always excellent; and went to his room. Although he hadn't lived with his parents for a few years, his room was still in the same condition. His mother always ventilated, wiped and dusted the room once a week. His parents always said that he was their son and had his place in their house forever. They would never get rid of his room, even though they had both longed for a study where they had their own pool table. Enjolras was grateful to them for that.

He set the food and drink on the table beside his bed and lay down. He immediately rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Lamp light streamed through the window into the room, giving his room a soothing, dark orange tinge. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. That's exactly what he needed now. Lying, resting, thinking of nothing.

After a while, he heard laughter. It came from the lower floor. He stared at the door as if laughter echoed right in front of them. He smiled. He loved when, even after so many years, he heard the sincere laughter of his parents. It often happened to him that he stood in the doorway and watched the two of them - as they ate breakfast and ate their favorite fruit in the morning, as they kissed their faces in the afternoon, as they danced to classical music in the evening in the middle of the living room, quietly looking at each other in love. They were their first love and endured despite all the pitfalls of life.

He sighed. Enjolras also wanted to experience it. He wasn't insensitive, though many people thought that of him. He thought of love, even though he didn't talk about it. With another year behind him, he began to admit that the idea of a wedding wasn't as terrible as it had first seemed. And with each passing year, he also knew that even though everyone thought about him as innocent, he had a lot of experience. They kept him awake from time to time until he was able to roll onto his stomach and drive away the annoying pressures in his lower abdomen.

"Jesus, Enjolras," he growled aloud, taking a deep breath. He just didn't want to think about that. It's true that it's been a long time since he's touched anyone. Last time was half a year ago. He was with Courfeyrac at the club, where they were celebrating their next year of college. They talked when Enjolras's friend from school - Marc - and his girlfriend stopped by - he no longer remembered her name. They talked, had a few drinks. And it wasn't until a few hours later that Enjolras realized that Marc's girlfriend had dissapeared with Courfeyrac. He was confused, but when he felt Marc begin to touch him on his thigh, he forgot everything. They came outside together for a breath of fresh air, and two blocks away Enjolras pressed Marc against a cold, stone wall and rubbed against him until they both came in their underwear. The next day he saw Marc and his girlfriend at school, talking to him as if nothing had happened. Although Enjolras could clearly see the red spot on her neck, which Marc certainly couldn't do. He didn't understand their relationship. But Enjolras knew only one thing - he didn't care until it was his partner.

That was actually something he never understood. He loved freedom and wanted to give it to everyone in their country. He defended all who were devalued. But when it came to relationship, he was strangely selfish. He couldn't imagine being touched by a stranger. That he would just hug with other men, or dance for fun to the most erotic song with an unknown man. He didn't even understand how some couples could watch porn together. He tried it. Once. He was only twenty, but he knew that the annoying feeling that had settled in his stomach and chest would never change. He knew Didier loved him. But the hungry look he gave to the two men on the screen tortured him. He never preferred to do it again. With nobody. He liked it when they looked at him like—

"My God, calm down," Enjolras growled, rolling on his side. He pressed his knees tightly together. "When…?" He asked in astonishment, looking down at his crotch, waiting for an answer. Yes, it had been a long time since anyone had touched him. When was the last time he actually touched himself? It could have been more than two months. Final exams, demonstrations, preparing a blog for their revolutionary group, taming quarrels between friends, working for Dr. Lamarque, participating in civil courts, writing articles for a political newspaper - all of this took a lot of time. He had no idea when he had last taken the hot, bubble-bath he loved so much.

He sighed. He stared at the door. He didn't have a key to them. But his parents have never entered without knocking since he was ten. They valued his privacy. He licked his lips with his tongue and bit his lower lip. Somewhere inside, his own voice shouted at him that this was bad. He should respect the hospitality of his parents and not thank them by deciding to masturbate under their roof, in a house where he hadn't lived for a long time.

But the annoying pressure in his crotch was getting worse. He thought about it. A few well-aimed touches, quick movements, and he could get rid of it. He could then go to sleep. Or watch a favorite series that was just playing on TV. He could go to see his parents again and play Monopoly together, as they used to, whenever he arrived. And he would be relaxed. Happy. Finally, he wouldn't think of anything.

He lay back on his back. He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them along with his underwear just enough to loosen his throbbing erection. He wasn't quite hard yet, but even in the darkness he could see that his pride was beginning to redden slightly and grow larger. He held the hem of his pants and underwear with his left hand, while his right began to take an interest in his erection. He took it in his hand, only lightly. A strong shock immediately shot through his body. Yes, it's been a long time. He could barely recognize the heat. He began to move his hand up and down. The pleasant feeling began to spread throughout his body.

He closed his eyes. Within seconds, his mind began to play with his imagination. When he remembered what his grandmother had told him — about the wedding, about the family — he wondered what his future would look like. He preferred when his partners were lower. He liked being able to hug them and feel their bodies sink into him. Black hair and light colored eyes were his weakness. His shaked every time the "dark type" - as Jehan called them - looked at him and he saw their bright eyes. Light blue or light green, he loved them the most. Especially when they looked at him through long lashes, when their mouths took care of his erection.

Enjolras squeezed more. Small droplets began to flow from the tip, allowing him to move his hand faster. He hissed contentedly. He was never too noisy during sex, perhaps due to the fact that even under normal circumstances he was very quiet and rather listening. However, he loved when his partner was noisy. Moaning, screaming, begging him to satisfy them and reach the top. Sometimes he liked being powerful over them. One of his last partners allowed him to tie him to the bed frames for time to time, and he couldn't get enough of the pleasant warmth in his chest when he decided to leave the room instead of making good love and listened to his partner inside the bedroom moaning his name. Enjolras's hand began to move even faster. He immediately began to imagine that his dream husband was lying there. The smaller, black-haired, blue-eyed, noisy man who would completely surrender to him and moan, " _ Apollo _ ."

Enjolras opened his eyes. His hand stopped moving and the other shot to his mouth. He covered them as if He wanted to shout. He felt his eyes roll. He really imagined now… He shook his head. No. That couldn't be possible. It was a short circuit. It was true that at times he thought about what his friends were like in bed, how they looked, how they sounded, and if they were as good as they claimed to be; but it was just friendly curiosity. Who never thinked about it? According to many comments on the Internet, this was normal. And so he didn't care about it much.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, shook his head again, and closed his eyes. He set his hand in motion again. Where did he stop… Sure. His bedroom, the bed, the man tied to the bed. As he groaned, he flexed his back and sweated. Droplets of sweat would run down his chest. Tattooed chest. His right hand quickened again. Sure. Tattoo. He also loved it. Especially the black and white, complex, beautifully drawn. He loved being able to map their outlines with his fingers. None of his partners have had a tattoo yet. Maybe what was said about the lawyers and the boys who were involved in politics and public administration were true - they were boring. They were all quite the same, had similar interests, and although they were beautiful and cared about their bodies, none of them had unnecessary hair or tattoos and piercings on their chests or anywhere else on their bodies. He missed the savagery Enjolras saw in that a little, and he always tried not to think what it would be like to hold his partner by the hips as he thrusted hard inside him and a black tattoo moved on his shoulders.

Enjolras bit his lip to keep him from moaning heavily. He stopped holding the hem of his pants and underwear with his left hand, and moved a little lower. He touched the testicles, which were already full and aching. He was careful. He never looked for much pain in vain, though his lovers often pulled him by the hair - his blond, thick, restless mane simply enticed him to do so. He wasn't surprised. He also loved being able to bury his fingers in the thick hair of someone writhing beneath him like parchment. He experienced the real euphoria only when he felt fine, curly hair between his fingers, which he could pull, forcing his lover to press even harder on him. If only he could once pull for Grantaires sticking out of them all—

Enjolras opened his eyes again. The right hand stopped moving again. He grunted in displeasure. No, he couldn't do that. He couldn't think of his friend. He was glad that after years of knowing each other, they were finally able to talk to each other normally. This would do no good. Grantaire was a friend who loved girls and boys, didn't hide his sexual affairs, and apparently—

"Damn," he whispered, closing his eyes. He couldn't think about him, he couldn't think about him, he couldn't think about him.

But... Grantaire never hid his love for him and admired him. Maybe more than just as a friend. He often spoke in riddles. His jokes were clearly with a sexual undertone. When he got drunk, he liked to talk about what a nice ass Enjolras had, and he would like to pat him to see if it would shake like jelly or be solid as steel.

In fact, it was Enjolras who would rather grab him by the ass with his delicate, small hands. He was beautifully shaped, round, and in those tight jeans he was incredibly attractive. "I don't care anymore," Enjolras whispered as he began to move his hand at a fast pace, as before. He was young. He could sometimes think about something sinful. Even thought of his friend. He had a right to do something stupid.

He moaned slightly as he began to think about how Grantaire had always smiled at him. He had nothing better in his intimate life than when his partner knelt before him and began to satisfy him with his mouth in the most sensitive place. He loved when his fingers could cut through their hair, look into their eyes, feel the tongue trying to encircle every detail of his swollen veins. How would Grantaire be? Would he be willing to do it for Enjolras? The blond just smiled. Of course he will. Grantaire would be able to do absolutely anything for him. Even if he asked him to jump out the window, his answer would be - from what floor and what speed. Grantaire certainly wouldn't mind if Enjolras pushed him by the shoulders and made him kneel in front of him.

Oh, only the thought made him speed up, smearing his own juices on his swollen cock so he could move faster. He imagined Grantaire kneeling in front of him. Dressed, in that annoyingly tight, black T-shirt with a neckline that stuck out a pair of black hairs and the outline of a tattoo he had all over his chest. He would look at him with those big blue eyes and smile as best he could. As he always begged for his attention. And now the brunette definitely had it. He would put his foot in his knee to understand that he wanted him to get closer. And he would crawl up to him on all his four.

His hand quickened again and his left gripped his swollen balls. Grantaire would put his hands on his thighs, squeezing them several times. Then he would move his fingers on the annoying button and unzip it. He would bite on the hem of his underwear and pull them down. His swollen erection would hit him in the face. He would be as excited as he was now. Grantaire would take him in his hand first, reveal his swollen purple tip a few times, and then stick his tongue out so he could lick it and—

Enjolras opened his eyes. He sighed. That wasn't enough. He needed to feel more wetness. He wanted to feel as if someone was really satisfying him with their mouth. He slowed and began searching his bedside table with his left hand. His skin was very dry, so he did everything he could to keep it from cracking. He anointed himself with all sorts of creams that rolled all over his apartment. But there was nothing in the drawer. He moaned unhappily. He was single. So he didn't even have condoms with him. He wasn't one to carry lubricants in his pockets. So what else could he use?

His hand touched something. He frowned. He pushed aside some papers he didn't even know what was on them and pulled out the fabric he had touched. "No, Enjolras," he said to himself as he pulled the French flag out of his drawer. How could he forget? He put it there at fourteen. It was his first flag he bought. He didn't even know what he needed it for, he hadn't seen it in a long time, but he never got rid of it. "Please don't even think about it," he whispered aloud, shaking his head.

But his body didn't listen to him. He brought the fabric closer to his face. He inhaled the scent. It smelled faintly of jasmine and burnt wood. This was one of his first colognes he used. That was a few years back. He pushed the cloth against his mouth with his hand. It was silk. Almost like human skin. "Enjolras," he whispered warningly, but it was priceless. He put his fingers with the cloth in his mouth. After fews seconds, the substance was wet from his saliva. It was a little softer than before.

"You can't do that," he whispered before moving the fabric to his cock and gripping it tightly. "Ahh," he moaned aloud, closing his eyes immediately.

He returned to his imagination. Grantaire took his entire tip in his mouth and began to play with it. In a moment he took him almost full in his mouth. Grantaire was always rude, laughed a lot and liked to drink. He was said to have a "dirty mouth." And now Enjolras wanted to use them for the dirtiest he could think of. He would dig his fingers into his head and help him be fully in. He would wipe his tip against his throath. Grantaire was known not to have a gag reflex. He liked to demonstrate it, especially in bars, where he was able to put two shots of alcohol in his mouth and drink them without suffocating.

Now Enjolras would take advantage of it. He would pound into his mouth and Grantaire couldn't defend himself. He couldn't run from him. But a brunette wouldn't plan anything like that anyway. He would sink his hands into his thighs and let him do whatever he wanted.

Because he would do everything for him, wouldn't he?

Enjolras felt himself approaching the top. The hand quickened, the fabric of the flag was wet from his saliva and juice. "In a minute…" he whispered, imagining Grantaire looking at him. Those big, beautiful eyes that said only one thing -  _ I love you. _

That was enough for Enjolras to come. He quickly covered his mouth with his left hand to keep himself from screaming. An otherwise quiet blond man, wanted to now shout the name of his friend, who sucked jim in his imagination until he swallowed all his salty liquid.

Enjolras was unable to open his eyes for several minutes. He blinked and licked his lips with his tongue. With his left hand, he reached for the bedside table, where the now-cold tea lay. He drank. He moaned contentedly. His lips, mouth and throat were dry. He braced himself on his elbows and looked at his crotch. It was covered by a flag. Wet, crumpled and desecrated.

"My God, what did I do?" He asked himself, sighing aloud. He wiped all the remnants of what he had done with the flag. He pulled on his underwear and pants again. He crumpled the flag into a ball and left the room discreetly, went downstairs, looked into the living room — where his parents were watching a show, drinking wine and hugging each other — and walked out the door. A trash can stood a few steps from the garage door. With a heavy heart, he threw the flag into it. "Don't tell anyone," he told the flag menacingly before closing the trash can lid and looking up at the sky. The moon shone beautifully and a few stars shone in the sky. "God, I'm crazy," he said to himself, realizing that the only thing he thought of when he looked at the sky were Grantaire's eyes, which shone exactly like the stars.


	31. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re done, my dear friends. Wow, month passed really fast! I would like to take this opportunity to thank you very much for all the kudos and comments you have left me. Definitely don't stop! Remember that this is the driving force for writers, which drives them on and they have a greater desire to write and share their works. I hope we will see each other again soon!
> 
> Btw. George Blagden, who will be Grantaire for me forever, posted on his instagram today that he had become a father a week ago! Congratulations! (Ignore the fact that when I saw Aaron (Enjolras) congratulate him and they exchanged a few words, I screamed like a hysterical fan.)

A sliding, glass door opened in front of Grantaire and he entered the hospital lobby. Already at the front desk, a nice-looking girl was smiling broadly at him, looking at him from head to toe and saying, "Again?" Grantaire nodded. "Lower floor, third door, knock twice. You're lucky, Elodie has a shift today, she'll let you in."

"Thank you," he said honestly, trying to smile at her. He couldn't do it. His cheeks listened to his pounding heart, which glowed with anger. He walked downstairs, where there was another reception and several tables. No one was sitting at them. He reached the end of the hall in front of the main door and knocked twice. He waited until an elderly lady's head to appear between the doors.

"Oh, come on," she said, dodging so he could enter. She looked tired. Grantaire looked at the large clock that shone above the glass window leading to the nurse's room. It was a few minutes past eleven at night. "Fortunately, it's nothing serious today. We sewed his lip and eyebrow. It will hurt for a while, but it will heal soon. He has a bruised hand, but it's nothing serious. But try to control him not to carry anything heavy and strain his hand unnecessarily.” Normally, Grantaire would ask her if he had injured his right hand, and he would now have to “ stand up for his job”, but he wasn’t in the mood for such jokes. He wanted to be home as soon as possible.

They reached the end of the corridor. The nurse removed the card from her neck and ran a lock through it. The door opened. Together, they entered a waiting room for patients awaiting surgery. There was only one young man sitting there. When he heard the door slam, he looked up from the ground and looked ahead. He sighed as his gaze met Grantaire's. "Hello," he said softly, as if afraid to say it.

Grantaire didn’t return the greeting to Enjolras. He looked at him instead. His clothes were dirty. He had a few splashes of mud on his knees. His T-shirt was torn on the hem, as was his right shoulder. His jacket was soaked and lying beside him. His hair was tousled. His face was flushed. Above his eye, he had a long, wide scar cleansed with disinfectant that left a purple color on his skin. His lip was torn, now sewn together, but he still had a few drops of blood on his chin. His eyes were tired and shiny, and apparently a few tears ran down the pain of checking and sewing. His right hand was bandaged with a bandage. There were red drops where he had joints. Apparently he rubbed them back into his blood.

Grantaire wanted to see him. He wanted to kiss him. Touch his body with his hands to make sure nothing happened to him. Massage his bruised hand. He wanted to slap him. Kick him. Start yelling at him. There were two feelings mixed in him - relief and anger. He didn't know which of them was better to let win. So he preferred to keep quiet.

He turned to the nurse , who handed him a piece of paper, which he almost blindly signed and opened the door. Enjolras understood. He got up from his chair, quietly thanked the nurse for her work, and went outside. Grantaire walked a few steps in front of him, never once turning behind him. When they left the hospital, Grantaire went straight to the car. He unlocked it, sat in the driver's seat, and started the engine. Enjolras boarded the passenger seat, and before he could fasten his seat belt, Grantaire drove out of the parking lot.

They were silent all the way. Grantaire concentrated on driving, following all regulations. He never looked at Enjolras. He didn't even turn on the radio. He knew that the worst thing he could do to Enjolras at the moment was silent. Torture him with a silence he hated so much.

And he did it. Enjolras sat in his place, his left hand still feeling the bandage on his right. He looked alternately out the window, into his lap and at Grantaire. Although he had a neutral expression and was breathing very calmly, he knew he was mad at him. It was revealed by fingers dug into the leather on the steering wheel. He also noticed that he sometimes took a deep breath and exhaled aloud. He did this whenever he needed to calm down so he wouldn't be rude.

Enjolras would have preferred him to start cursing at him. If he was yelling at him. It would help both of them. But he hated this silence. He knew it bothered the brunette. But he didn't try to intersect the dense atmosphere and upset Grantaire even more.

Half an hour later, they stopped in a quiet street in front of an apartment complex. They got out together, Grantaire locked the car, and together they came to a hallway where there was an elevator. Enjolras was already reaching for the button, but Grantaire decided he'd rather go up the stairs to the sixth floor. Enjolras sighed and followed him. Again Enjolras was a few steps behind him.

Grantaire was the first to walk in front of the door of their apartment.  _ Their apartment _ . It still seemed absurd to him. Two and a half years ago, they decided to turn their quarrels, the inappropriate remarks, and the nervousness they felt every time they had fun together into something more useful. They started sleeping together. Without love, without a single confession of feelings, without any rules. However, it only took them half a year to find out that they had begun to seek the other's attention outside of sexual relaxation. After several quarrels, culminating in passionate love, they decided to move their relationship further. From friends with benefits, they became partners. At first it was both a little weird, they both learned how to date and tried to understand each other, but even though they weren't perfect, they knew it should be like that. After a year of officially dating, Enjolras was the first to confess his love. Grantaire cried, and after finally calming down, he admitted that he loved him before anything even began between them. That night, they decided to move in together. They bought a small apartment on a quiet street, and even though they were afraid of how they would work together, everything worked out. They were able to give each other space, privacy, and they were always there for each other to cook together, cuddle on the couch, or talk in bed.

There was only one thing they couldn't get over. Enjolras and his demonstrations. Better said - what happened after them. Grantaire knew that Enjolras would never give up on his dream. If he goes out with this beautiful, lovely blonde; he has to accept the fact that he would never change it, and forever it would be the utopian dreamer of perfect democracy fighting for human rights. He never minded. These dreams were part of him. And he loved him.

However, he hated all the scars and bruises he had after the demonstrations. Whenever Enjolras informed Grantaire that he was preparing for a demonstration, the brunette knew how it would turn out. Whether it was calm or wild, Enjolras always returned home with some new injuries. They were small at first, Grantaire almost laughing at them, always having fun when Enjolras tried to get up from the couch with his sore leg. But the more he demonstrated, the more severe and deeper his injuries were. When he first called him from the hospital to let him know that Enjolras had given his phone number as a contact person, if anything happened, he almost fainted. He hurried to the hospital, and when he saw Enjolras waiting for him in the waiting room with his bandaged hand and monocle, he didn’t hold back. He started arguing with him when the nurse had to take them out. They argued in the parking lot and didn’t talk for two days to each other. Then, as if something had broken between them, they looked at each other, smiled, and made love. The crisis has been averted.

Until it happened again. And again. And again.

Grantaire was beginning to have enough. Whenever he saw that Enjolras had begun to pack for demonstrations, he began to make venomous remarks. This didn’t go without Enjolras' reactions, which led to one thing - quarrels. They argued so often that Enjolras decided to take a drastic step. He didn’t want to lose Grantaire, so he did not tell him about the demonstrations. That's why it was so hard when Grantaire came to pick him up from hospital, tears in his eyes and with a frightened face. Enjolras understood that he was only worried about him and was trying to protect him. That's why when the brunette started yelling at him - he was silent. He let him relax, and then, a few minutes later, he hugged him tightly around the waist, kissed him on the neck, apologized, and made love to him. It worked.

But that didn't mean it didn't bother them both.

Grantaire walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Enjolras followed quietly. He stood between the doors. He looked at the brunette, who was tapping his feet nervously on the floor with his arms crossed over his chest. "So, what was it this time? Human rights? Defending non-profit organizations? Or something about animals?” Enjolras was silent. "So you're not going to tell me anything again? Okay. So can you at least tell me why you didn't mention another demonstration?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

"And do you think that helped? That I wasn't worried after they called me from the hospital again? Enjolras, every time my phone rings and we're not together, I'm scared. I see you dead somewhere in a scarp. Mounted on devices in a coma. Or under a pole in the operating room. And you know very well that I am not exaggerating. It's only a matter of time."

"Grantaire..."

"Stop it! I’m right! You know that very well. Combeferre told me that before we met, you were quite a number at the demonstrations and didn't go far for a punch. One policeman beat you up so much that you lay in the ICU for two weeks. Two weeks!"

"Combeferre should learn not to talk about such things."

"Or should you learn not to do something like that, do you think?"

Enjolras just sighed. "I'll go take a shower."

"No. You're not going anywhere. You'll hear this, right? It's the only thing I have left. Do you understand? Because if you don't tell me you're going to a demonstration, it's probably hard for me to join you."

"I don't want you to go there with me."

"Are you ashamed of me?"

"You know that's not true."

"Then why don't you want it?"

"I don't want anyone to hurt you."

"I'm talking about it! As you feel now, I feel every time I know something has happened to you again. And I know something always happens to you. Why the fuck aren't you a little careful?” Grantaire ran his hand through his black hair. Sweaty. Out of anger? Fear? He didn't know himself. "Enjolras, I don't like this. I'm tired of worrying about you all the time. I'm only calm when we're together. And I don't like that. We have our own lives and I want to belong to yours just as you belong to mine."

"But you belong in mine."

"But I don't feel that way! So why don't you tell me you're going somewhere?”

"Then you'd like to come with me."

"And?"

"I already told you, I don't want you to get hurt."

Grantaire sighed. "We're running in a circle," he whispered to himself, rising from his seat. “Enjolras... I'm tired."

"Okay. Do you want to make tea before going to bed?”

"No, Enjolras. I'm  _ tired _ . From this. From what has been going on here for so many years and I don't see a single moment when anything would change."

Enjolras was silent for a moment. He blinked a few times and then frowned. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Jesus, no, of course not," Grantaire groaned aloud. How was he supposed to explain it to him? Enjolras didn’t understand human feelings so much. He didn't blame him. But sometimes - sometimes it frustrated him. "I just want to know why you're doing this? Why do you keep exposing me to such stress?”

They stood there, looking into each other's eyes, but neither said anything.

Grantaire sighed after a few minutes, shook his head, and said quietly, "I'm going for a walk."

"Wait," Enjolras said urgently, grabbing his wrist. He held him tight, but not painfully. Grantaire looked at him again, and Enjolras understood. He had to tell him. He couldn't keep it a secret anymore. "Wait here," he begged as he left the room, leaving Grantaire alone.

The blond returned in a few seconds. He held a small box in his hand. He sat down on the sofa and pointed to a spot next to him. Grantaire sat down next to him. As soon as he sat down, Enjolras handed him the box. He looked at it from all sides and frowned incomprehensibly. "What is it?"

"Open it." Grantaire opened the box. There was another in it, velvety, red, and much smaller. His heart pounded. He looked at Enjolras, but he just repeated, "Open it."

And Grantaire obeyed. He opened it for her, and his breath immediately caught in his throat. Inside the box was a gold ring studded with rubies. Grantaire knew he wasn't new. But it still looked beautiful. It was polished, cleaned. He took it in his hand and examined it. He looked beautiful. "It belonged to my great-grandmother," Enjolras began. "She gave it to her grandson, my great-grandfather, when he wanted to get married. He gave it to his wife, and she gave it to her first-born grandson, my grandfather. When Grandma handed the ring to my father, she hoped that one day they would have a large family with my mother. They have always insisted that at least one boy be born in each generation. Their wish came true, except for one important thing…” He didn't finish, just sighed and Grantaire understood. Enjolras has always avoided the theme of marriage. Everyone thought that because he didn't like them. But after two years of dating and living together, Grantaire realized that wasn’t the case. He loved weddings, and even once longed to get married and have his own family. He didn't talk about it, but Grantaire had gathered enough information over the years to know that he would one day want to get married in a meadow, just surrounded by his immediate family, Combeferre would be his best man, and the whole wedding would be in a rustic style. And there would be lavender everywhere. Lots of lavender. "Grantaire, you know…" Enjolras's voice was nervous. This happened whenever he had to talk about something more personal. Grantaire leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and stroked his thigh with a ring-free hand. "My mother hid the ring in her bedroom for several years. She never planned to give it to me. Because she knew I would never need it.”

“Enjolras…”

"But when I finally took you home and introduced you to my parents… Something happened. With her. With my father. With the way they looked at me the whole time. Finally, I saw no sadness in their eyes, but interest. Sincere joy. They were really happy to see that I was happy too, and I finally found love.” Grantaire felt his cheeks flush. He still couldn't get used to Enjolras loving him. It seemed like a dream to him. "So, the night before we left, my mother stopped me to talk to me. About everything. Mainly about relationships, about my future. About what I'm planning. After years of still having to hide and lie, I finally felt free. Then when she hugged me all and I wanted to go after you, she put the ring in my hand with the words -  _ I know that one day you can do what you believe. And beside your side, your husband will stand. _ ” He remembered that day. He was nervous. He didn't know what to expect from Enjolras' parents. The blond never mentioned them much. But his mother and father were very hardworking, a little quieter and very nice people. They were conservative, and he saw his father looking at him, clenching his fingers into the backs of his chairs, and still leaving the room; but then, at dinner, they began to talk about the operas and the theater — which Enjolras's father loved so much — the ice broke between them. He slept when the blond returned to the room where he and Enjolras had slept. He noticed that his eyes were teary and his cheeks were wet. When he asked him what had happened, Enjolras just smiled at him and didn't answer. He made love to him quietly that night, still kissing him on the cheek and whispering him as much he loved him.

"Enjolras, you—"

"Grantaire—" Enjolras turned so that his body was directly opposite Grantaire. "—I'd like to marry you one day." Grantaire widened his eyes at him. His hands began to shake and his heart skipped a few beats. Enjolras immediately leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. His kisses always managed to calm him down. But now they didn't work. He grabbed his hands folded in his lap and squeezed them tightly. "But in order to do that, I must first change the law. I have to open people's eyes. When the voice of the people speaks, only then will something begin to happen. Only then will politicians finally understand that we have the right to be together. Not only verbally, but also legally. And before the law changes, I need to fight for it. A few scars are worth our future, aren't they?”

Instead of answering, Grantaire kissed him hungrily and didn’t allow him to open his mouth until morning for nothing but loud moans and a confession of love.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [2WNikiAngel](http://www.2wnikiangel.tumblr.com).


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